Lineage VI
by ruth baulding
Summary: AU! Jedi Apprentice. BOOK 6: Master and apprentice undertake a risky undercover mission to expose conspiracy in a far-flung sector; a comedy of manners abruptly transforms into a nightmare when their cover is blown; and a desperate escape gambit strikes deep at the foundations of trust.
1. Chapter 1

**Lineage VI**

* * *

1.

"Glorious," Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn murmured, his eyes lighting with awe and reverence. The luminous tapestry of royal purples and glowing, fiery oranges draped from one curving horizon to the other, adorned with luminous pennants of cloud: the Living Force's triumphant, silent canticle to the rising sun.

His Padawan gritted his teeth and sent their small ship into a sickening dive, narrowly avoiding the next volley of shots aimed at their rear deflectors. Something blared a shrill alert on the console. The decks shuddered beneath their feet.

"A bit _too_ fast, Obi-Wan," the tall man advised, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Let them clip us next time."

His apprentice shot him a fulminating look and clenched his jaw, putting the belabored ship through a corkscrewing barrel-roll as another armada of plasma bolts came winging their way. The shields flared bright as energy packets glanced off the spinning vessel's hull.

"Uugh," the pilot gasped, straightening out of the hurtling aerial maneuver with a distinctly nauseated look on his young face.

Qui-Gon exhaled sharply, as close to an expression of impatience as a Jedi master of his years and experience might ever display. "Relax," he advised his companion. "Just let them get in a hit."

"I'm _trying,_ master," the young Jedi replied, tightly.

"There is no try," his mentor placidly reminded him.

The defensive computer blipped its next warning in a piercing tone. "Ah," the tall man smiled. "Torpedos. Now we're getting somewhere."

Obi-Wan swallowed visibly, features hardening into a furious concentration, knuckles whitening about the yoke as he began jinking and jiving to evade the new threat. Two separate seeking missiles cruised along behind them, steadily gaining, their con trails like wicked scars etched across the magenta skies.

Qui-Gon leaned back in the co-pilot's chair, discreetly testing the crash harness with one hand. "_Breathe, _ Padawan. Use the Force. Let it guide you."

The young Jedi growled audibly. "Down!?" he answered, in what amounted to an indignant yelp.

"Yes, Padawan," the older man half-chuckled. "If that is the way the Force is guiding you. Down."

The hull rattled violently as they hit a pressure pocket in the atmosphere. A torpedo overshot them and circled round; Obi-Wan pointed the ship toward the distant center of gravity and sent them hurtling in a precipitous dive, corkscrewing out at the last moment as the seeking missile again barely missed their starboard wing.

"I _hate _ flying!" the Padawan snarled, twisting and climbing once again.

Qui-Gon sighed and leaned across the console, placing one broad hand on the yoke and pulling it slightly toward himself. The small ship jerked in mid-air, shuddering as the two Jedi momentarily fought for control.

And then the missile struck them a glancing blow, one that did not do explosive damage but which sent them into an uncontrolled spin.

"You see?" the Jedi master inquired, tightening his crash harness as the craft spiraled about wildly, losing altitude at an alarming rate. "That wasn't so difficult."

The undulating canopy of a rainforest appeared below them as they dropped, gracelessly, below the clouds. "_Blast it!"_

"Had you allowed them to hit us five minutes ago, as you were instructed," Qui Gon informed his student, "We would have been over grasslands. Much more favorable territory for a crash."

Obi-Wan ignored the chastisement, struggling to hold the ailing ship's nose up, to guide them in a low glide over the seemingly endless expanse of green.

"Easy. Relax."

"_Yes,_ master." They dropped, dropped further… like a stone skipping on water they hit the topmost layer and went sailing upward again only to crash back down, ploughing through branches and leaves in a shower of splintered green and shrieking noise.

"Oh not good-"

The ship lurched, flipped upside down and took a sickening plunge before coming to a sudden and deafening halt. The emergency crash buffers were deployed, instantly filling the cockpit with pressurized air pillows. The Jedi slammed forward into these yielding objects, and were then thrown backward into their seats by the rebound.

Silence.

"Well?" Qui-Gon grunted, dangling in place. The safety harnesses kept them firmly attached to their seats. The console flickered a few times and then gave up the ghost. The Force hammered wildly in two racing pulses, but otherwise flowed undisturbed.

"We are _upside down,_ master," his apprentice complained, working at his harness release clamp.

"That is to be attributed to your piloting skill," the tall man reminded him, similarly freeing himself. They cautiously rolled onto the roof of the ship and pried the access hatch open. A fifty meter drop opened below them, a tunnel of variegated greens and browns ending in a soft pile of undergrowth far, far below.

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth, but made no reply. He took a deep breath and then slipped his legs through the opening, gracefully dropping through the hatch into the jungle below. Qui-Gon watched his twisting acrobatic progress down to the jungle floor – the leaps off jutting branches, the mid-air somersaults, the completely unnecessary backflip over the last line of creeper vines, and then followed, sailing downward in a Force-cushioned and far less ostentatious display of skill.

Once safely sheltered beneath the broad roof of the undercanopy, the two Jedi squinted up at the dark silhouette of their abandoned ship far overhead.

"That's going to count against us," Obi-Wan observed, regretfully.

"Focus on the present moment," his mentor replied, automatically. "Which way shall we proceed?"

The Padawan turned a slow circle. The shrill cacophony of the rain forest wove a dense veil of sound in every direction. "They'll send scout droids first," he guessed.

The tall Jedi master looked dubious. "In a jungle? We will not be easy to locate, among so many life forms. I would expect a sentient tracker, instead."

His apprentice grinned. "Better and better. Let's find high ground."

Qui-Gon nodded in agreement, and they set off, pushing through the underbrush and climbing among the sculptured hills and vales of massive root systems. Insects buzzed and fluttered and greedily availed themselves of any exposed patch of skin. The humidity quickly reduced their tunics to damp and sticky discomfort. Soon their hands and faces were grimed and their hair disorderly and fretted with delicate cobwebs.

"Magnificent," the Jedi master breathed as they emerged at last into a grotto where light fell unbroken from a high opening into a tranquil green pool. A waterfall cascaded over jutting boulders held fast in the ancient grasp of tree roots and clinging vines. A rainbow aura rose off the water where the falls plummeted to a gentle foaming bath. A few native grazers jerked their heads upward at the arrival of strangers and disappeared from the edge of the watering hole.

Obi-Wan stretched himself prostrate upon the yielding soil and drank deeply of the water, splashing a liberal amount onto head and chest. "Ah," he remarked, happily kneeling at the water's edge, droplets streaming down the nape of his neck and off his braid's tufted end. "Thank the Force. It's blasted _hot_ here."

Qui Gon grunted in agreement, cupping his hands to bring water to his own mouth. "And the plan is…?"

Obi-Wan peered through the gloaming beneath the tall trees all round. "The hunted controls the hunter. We need a transport, one that can pass back through their orbital blockade undetected. The best way to get one of their ships is to bring it here. So, when their scout arrives, we put up a good show of fighting and then surrender. Well, one of us does. Then, when they call for reinforcements and a ship comes, the other one of us hijacks it and we make our escape."

The tall man tilted his head slightly. "Fine. But which of us surrenders?"

"You, master. I'll hide at the top of the falls."

"Hm. It might be better to leave the stronger member of the team _free,_ Padawan. A matter of simple prudence. If there is to be bait, it ought to be you."

The young Jedi pressed his lips together in disapproval. "I'd rather do the hijacking."

"I know."

"I can take them down easily, master." The ghost of a smile lit his eyes. "I'd rather _like _ to, in point of fact."

One of Qui-Gon's brows rose. "I know that, too," he said repressively. "But that does not justify taking unwarranted risks. We shall play our weaker sabaac card and reserve the ace until the last hand."

His student's gaze flicked irritably to one side before returning to the older man's face. "Yes, master."

"Good. It's settled. I'll conceal myself at the top of the falls. You stay here and wait to be captured." He strode toward the waiting cliffs, pausing momentarily at their foot. "By the way, Obi-Wan, you've done marvelously well. I'm sure our opponents are quite vexed with you by now…. If it's any consolation."

"I'm going to surrender to people who are annoyed with me? That makes it _ever_ so much better," came the predictably sarcastic retort.

Qui-Gon chuckled and ascended the slick cliff-face in a single graceful leap.

Their wait was of short duration. Less than a handful of minutes later – a span of time in which the industrious blood sucking gnats and mites made good use of the opportunity presented them – the Force tautened with the approach of a cunning newcomer. Qui-Gon flattened himself at the pinnacle of the falls, while Obi-Wan crouched expectantly behind a convenient knot of bushes.

The slender figure which slipped into the sky-domed sanctuary form the jungle's pillared nave was a human youth no older than Obi-Wan himself, though certainly one whose lethal grace bespoke years of training and dangerously honed senses. Clad in a drab soldier's unisuit, his face protected from the invasive flies by a simple bandana, only a pair of sly grey eyes were visible beneath his short crop of dark hair. This stealthy visitor prowled into the clearing with a tense alertness, and stopped by the pool's edge, his head raised as though scenting some invisible, impalpable wind.

A tiny rustle in the yarbanna seedlings' branches to his right invited further investigation; but the stranger ignored the ruse and turned his attention to the clump of wide-leaved _grool_ on his left, instead. His grey eyes narrowed in satisfaction as he slipped a lightweight stun blaster from its holster on his thigh, cautiously edging closer to his prey, a low chuckle issuing from his throat as he stalked nearer.

The _grool_ bush twitched and uttered a low and musical chuckle of its own.

"You may as well surrender," the hunter addressed the clump of foliage, in a civil tone. "I know you're there and I've got this whole area staked out with seeker probes. You're outnumbered."

The bush bowed graciously and then sprang back to attention as the young Jedi stepped from behind it, tossing his cloak to the damp earth with casual insouciance.

"Oh good," he drawled. "I was afraid this was going to be boring."

His interlocutor raised the blaster and pointed it directly at his opponent's chest.

The Padawan's hand rested lightly on his saber hilt, but his posture betrayed no anxiety. "You first," he challenged, one eyebrow twitching upward sardonically. "Even _you_ can't miss at this range."

A bird screeched somewhere overhead. Insects hummed busily in the hot mist.

"Surrender, you crazy gundark. You're the last one standing – I've got the _entire team_ ready to back me up."

"Only a fool puts his faith in numbers," the young Jedi placidly replied, one hand still resting upon his weapon's crenellated pommel.

The thrum of a ship's repulsors stirred the leaves of the towering trees, the vessel's shadow momentarily eclipsing the sun overhead.

"This has been a _long_ chase," the blaster wielding youth growled. "So let's finish this the easy way, shall we?"

Obi-Wan's mouth curved upward at the corners, revealing mischievous dimples. "If you insist."

An instant later his saber's sapphire blade flashed and howled in a blazing arc, deflecting his foe's first three shots. A soaring leap closed the gap between the two youths, and the plasma blade severed the blaster's barrel with another expertly delivered blow. The weapon's owner rolled backward out of range at lightning speed, springing to his feet with the confidence of a trained combatant. He shouted some terse order to his concealed allies.

Seeker probes and a cluster of other young humanoids in dull guerilla uniforms burst from cover, effectively surrounding the Padawan.

Obi-Wan cast a glance in either direction, calculating the odds and lazily flourishing his 'saber.

"Just surrender and have done with it!" the victorious hunter snarled at him, a definite edge of vexation sharpening his tone. "You stubborn chosski. You've _lost."_

"Not yet."

The ship lowered itself through the open ring of trees, settling softly upon landing prongs on the other side of the quiet pool.

"That's it. Just _nail_ him!"

An instantaneous explosion of shots sent birds and beats fleeing in terror, their cries echoing in every direction, their shrill protests a counterpoint to the howl and screech of a saber blade batting away a hail of low-power blaster bolts. Energy packets went sizzling into trees, into the earth, into the water where they sent up angry jets of steam. The saber blade sang with joyful defiance, carving liquid ribbons of light, defying assault, gouging burning slashes in to the droids' carapaces, keeping the sentient attackers at bay.

Obi-Wan fought like a cornered foxill, saber blazing, body twisting and dodging with consummate skill, teeth bared in a grin of unabashed enjoyment.

But sheer numbers did, in the end, overwhelm him. The pitched battle came to a sudden cease, the Jedi closely ringed by a circle of enemies now bruised, battered, burned – and in the droids' case, smoking and sputtering.

"_Surrender!"_ the guerilla leader bellowed, ripping off his bandana to reveal a handsome, clean-shaven face. His eyes glittered with a rare fire.

The defeated Padawan shrugged and deactivated his thrumming weapon, glancing eagerly over one shoulder at the exposed and unguarded ship on the opposite bank. "If it makes you feel better, Garen."

"You pompous barve," Jedi Padawan Garen Muln whispered fiercely in his friend's ear as he snatched the saber out of its owner's grip.

"You're fortunate that was set to low power," Obi-Wan observed blandly, casting another expectant look over one shoulder. A faint line appeared between his brows.

"I should stun you anyway," the other Jedi youth grumbled. "You deserve it. _Three days,_ Obi. I'm blasted sick of this exercise, you know?"

"Who says it's over?" his captive inquired, again looking toward the open but obviously _not_ hijacked ship a short distance away. The worry line deepened to a pensive frown.

Garen Muln followed his gaze to the ship, eyes narrowing. A grin split his face. "Oh… I _see."_ He slapped his companion on the shoulder. "Well, it looks as though you've forgotten to calculate in one wee detail."

This pronouncement was met with a look of blank incomprehension.

"Yes," Qui-Gon Jinn chimed in, joining the party at a careless gait. "I'm afraid this exercise is, at last, over."

Obi-Wan's jaw dropped. "Master! The _plan!_ What are you doing?"

The tall man ignored his protégé's outraged spluttering. "As Garen says, Padawan. You have overlooked one essential – and deadly – possibility. That of treason."

Obi-Wan's mouth snapped shut, color rising high in his cheeks.

The Jedi master turned a baleful eye on Garen Muln. "I do expect payment in full," he said sternly.

"Yes, Master Jinn," the young Jedi meekly promised. "On my honor."

Obi-Wan snorted contemptuously.

"Can I put the binders on him… please?" Garen asked hopefully.

Qui-Gon turned, shrugging his indifference. "As you wish – I've kept my end of the bargain, and now we can all go home."

Obi-Wan's chest rose and fell in strictly controlled rhythm as Garen smugly fixed the binders in place. "Master! You… you… _betrayed_ me? I – I –"

The smile lines around the Jedi master's eyes deepened slightly. "You should have sensed my duplicitous intentions long ago, Padawan mine."

"But - !"

"Come _on,"_ Garen Muln interrupted, tugging at his prisoner's wrists. "I'm taking you all the way to Coruscant in the _brig, _ you gundark. Three days. Stars above, you owe us all!"

Obi-Wan cast a pleading look in his teacher's direction, but the tall man merely held up his hands palm outward. "The disposition of your affairs is no longer in my hands," he informed his apprentice. "And besides, I am quite looking forward to a _quiet_ journey home."

And with one last teasing smile, he turned his back and made his way serenely toward the ship's open boarding ramp, leaving his stunned and speechless Padawan in the hands of his laughing age-mates.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lineage VI**

* * *

2.

Qui-Gon Jinn downed the last of his morning tea in one fell swoop and watched the first glimmer of dawn illumine the city-scape's far horizon. Coruscant's night-shrouded sky retreated sullenly, withdrawing before the gentle swelling tides of light. A miniscule sliver of sun appeared atop the furthest line of towers and sculptured high-rises, casting a long and brilliant beam across the duracrete plains all the way to the Temple's high ramparts.

The Jedi master exhaled slowly and re-entered his quarters' common room, only to encounter a sight as rare as a double comet-tail.

"Obi-Wan." The tall man's brows rose. "I thought you would be loathe to part company with your sleep couch this morning. To what do we owe this pleasure?"

The young man's jaw clenched slightly. "Betrayal makes its victim _nervous_, master. Perhaps I've become a paranoid insomniac."

"Oh? Anxiety must be released. You can join me for morning meditation."

"I'd rather do so alone," Obi-Wan informed him crossly, shrugging into his cloak His gaze flicked meaningfully to the door.

Qui-Gon leaned down slightly, bringing them to eye level. "Perhaps your manners have decided to stay slothfully abed. You ought to rouse them, I think."

The Padawan's mouth thinned. "I'll tell them to watch their backs."

"You would do better to watch your tongue."

Irritation lit the young Jedi's eyes, but he merely bowed, maintaining a pointed silence.

Qui-Gon folded his arms across his chest, expectantly.

The standoff lasted a full minute, but Obi-Wan finally yielded. "With your permission, master – since we have no duties scheduled until later – I would like to spend the morning in solitary contemplation."

The tall man narrowed his eyes. "Brooding?"

"_Thinking_," the Padawan clarified, tightly. "With respect. Master."

Another suspicion-laden pause. "Very well. Off you go."

The Jedi master waited until his student had departed, leaving behind a simmering undercurrent of discontent in the Force, before releasing his own frustrated breath.

"Brat," he muttered, settling onto a broad cushion in preparation for meditation.

* * *

The Jedi Temple was not always an easy place in which to find undisturbed solitude. One had occasionally to go to great lengths to achieve that enviable condition, and even then there was no guarantee of success. But the Archives were a likelier place than many others to find a small corner which might serve as temporary hermitage.

And the Force was quiet there.

Obi-Wan sequestered himself in one of the remote study alcoves on the west-facing wall, of the upper tier, and indulged in a morning of sustained brooding, unhampered by the need to be civil to others. It was refreshing. And after poring over several of his favorite severe philosophical tractates, meditating on the extinction of individuality in the Unifying Force, and translating a bit more of the tragic ancient Twi'Lek epic he was studying for a future language mastery exam, he felt distinctly improved in mood and outlook.

He even went so far as to admit to himself that he had no true cause for grief; Master Qui-Gon had played dirty during the training exercise, but surely he would have done the same were he placed in the Jedi master's position. Or worse. Yes. He would definitely have done worse.

He leaned back in the deep cushioned chair, reclining against his cast-off cloak. He propped one foot across the opposite knee and let his eyes trace over the Archives' vaulted ceiling, the rigid symmetry of its support beams, the perfect curve of the high roof. After another few leisurely moments of introspection during which he imagined what precise form _his_ hypothetical skullduggery would have taken, he came to three important realizations. First, that he was hungry. Second, that he could very well tolerate conversation and company once again. Third, and most importantly, that it was his solemn duty to absolutely _thrash_ Garen Muln in the dojo that afternoon.

A moment later he cheerfully exited the solemn repository of wisdom and went to make inquiries about midday meal.

* * *

"My friend, it is good to see you once again." Jedi Master Plo Koon's resonant voice conveyed a warm and genuine regard for the Order's resident maverick.

Qui-Gon bowed, delighted to encounter the revered KelDor master outside the somewhat limiting venue of a formal council session. "Likewise, Plo."

They fell into step side by side, ambling slowly among the meditation gardens' strictly groomed terraces. "And how is your Padawan faring?"

"Well, thank you. We are just returned from the seek-and-evade training exercise on Ragoon."

Master Plo chuckled, a sound oddly muffled by his methane-supplement breathing mask. "The Council was informed of your delay. Technical difficulties?"

They rounded a sharp bend and took the right hand turning, following the line of the artificial river. "If you count Obi-Wan as a technical difficulty," Qui-Gon replied placidly. "The others had trouble running him to ground. In the end I had to resort to underhanded tactics to bring him down – for the sake of the common good."

The Kel Dor Jedi's eyes crinkled humorously around the edges of his protective goggles. "Then he must be furious with you."

"He'll recover," the tall man answered, folding his hands into opposite sleeves. "He always does."

"You should be proud of his accomplishments,"Plo Koon rumbled. "He is growing strong in the Force, under your guidance."

Qui-Gon's mouth twitched. "Some would say, despite it."

"It is true," Plo concurred. "…that they say it," he added, playfully.

Another branching of the path brought them to a narrow avenue running beneath an ancient grove of yarbanna trees. "You did not come here to seek me out, however," Qui-Gon observed.

"No," the other master admitted, thoughtfully. "I came to meditate on possibilities. The situation in the Xolinthi sector has not improved over the last years. We must act soon, or else countenance outright lawlessness. And yet neither the sector government nor the neighboring systems has requested aid."

"A conundrum," Qui-Gon agreed. "And the Senate will not approve such action, either."

"Indeed not." Xolinthi mercantile interests were far too important to a majority of Senators' luxury lifestyles.

"What, then?"

"The Council has been deliberating whether to initiate an undercover operation," Plo confided in his friend.

Qui-Gon's brows rose. Council deliberations were confidential. There was no reason for Plo to entrust him with this piece of knowledge, unless… "Obi-Wan is very young for an undercover assignment," he objected.

"But he is skilled, intelligent, and capable," the KelDor corrected him, placidly. "Am I not right?"

* * *

Obi-Wan wended his way among the other diners in the Temple's lower level refectory, excusing himself with a demure nod or a slight smile of thanks as he threaded his way between superiors and peers respectively, sidling steadily toward the back of the spacious hall where he was confident of discovering at least one friend.

Or two, as the Force would have it.

"So then the stubborn gundark has the _yabbutz_ to think he's going to evade capture – again – even though there are a dozen of us and one of him." Garen's clear voice carried over the soft din of the other conversations in the room.

His companion tilted her golden head to the side quizzically and made some remark, too low to be heard. The gnawing hunger in Obi-Wan's belly evaporated, to be replaced by an uncommon fluttering sensation. He exhaled slowly, brows drawing together.

Garen laughed merrily. "Yes, well, he wasn't expecting Master Jinn to double cross him, was he? What? Oh, certainly it was worth the price. You should have seen the look on Obi-Wan's face. Words fail me."

The subject of this idle conversation – _gossip,_ to be more precise – set his tray down on the nearest horizontal surface and slid into the bench behind it, fingers drumming against his saber's hilt. He could not distinguish Garen's voice from the others any longer, but he still had a view of Siri Tachi's blonde head. The soft overhead illuminators spilled a gentle luminance upon her hair, and the place where her jawbone delicately curved in to meet the base of her ear. He swallowed and returned his gaze to the completely unappetizing and startlingly gluttonous portions he had served himself a moment earlier.

"Why so distracted, my little friend?" A familiar, robust voice cut through his morose introspection.

"Feld !" the young Jedi exclaimed, welcoming the interloper with a bright smile. The Twi"Lek knight seated himself opposite, blue lekku dangling over either broad cloaked shoulder. An answering smile flashed white against Feld Spruu's deep blue skin.

"Tell you what," the newcomer said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "The Council has suggested – suggested meaning commanded, mind you – that I seek out a Padawan learner. What do you think of that, eh, Obi-Kenobi?"

"My condolences."

Feld grinned again. "Ah ha ha."

"I meant to your future apprentice," Obi-Wan added, deadpan, fiddling with his utensil.

"You kill me," the Twi'Lek amicably replied. "I think I'll take _you_ on, what do you say?"

A wry smile twisted the younger Jedi's mouth. "Oh, I'm accounted for already. Though Master Jinn may be willing to _drive a bargain."_

"Really, now?" Feld laid into his own food with relish, pausing between mouthfuls. "And what do you think the price is? I'm a poor man – vow of humility and poverty, you know."

When Obi-Wan made no immediate and jesting answer, the young Twi'Lek looked up sharply and studied his companion intently. "I think I've found a source of contention, am I not right, my young friend?"

"There's- there's no contention. If I led you to believe there was, then I spoke without thought. I am honored to be Master Jinn's –"

"Enough, enough!" the blue-complected Jedi snorted. "I asked too many questions. Now tell me this, how are you going to even make a decent showing against me in the dojo later if you haven't eaten?"

"I'm sorry, I can't spar this afternoon – I have to attend the Form III advanced applications class. It's a special session."

Feld Spruu folded his arms across his chest. "And you are looking at the _instructor,_ my friend. So eat up. I want no excuses for sloppy performance."

The Padawan's appetite returned in full measure. "Yes, Master Spruu," he simpered.

"Oh ho ho," the Twi'Lek chuckled darkly. "I've got a thing or two to teach _you,_ Kenobi."

* * *

Qui-Gon opened the door with a casual flick of his wrist, and beamed in pleasure at the visitor standing upon his doorstep.

Tahl Uvain pushed slid past him without waiting for invitation, snapping the door shut behind her with a vexed gesture.

"Is there a _reason, _Qui, that you suppose me to be a useless cripple?"

The tall man's mouth thinned at the undertone of harsh indictment. His guest's blind eyes wandered aimlessly over his person and the space beyond, but Tahl's vision pierced all the more surely beneath his shields.

"You would refuse my gift?" he asked, watching her warily.

She wandered, sure-footed, across the sparely furnished room to a meditation cushion and settled herself regally upon it. Her dark cloak fell in a soft pool about her feet and spilled over onto the polished floor. "It was Padawan Muln who gallantly offered his services as personal valet to me for the next six weeks, as I recall," she corrected him tartly. "Not _you."_

"Ah," Qui Gon lightly replied, sitting opposite, so that Tahl's face was – from this carefully chosen vantage point- limned in brilliant morning light from the window behind. "But Padawan Muln does owe me quite a crushing debt. My loyalties are not easily bought."

Her sightless golden eyes widened in comprehension. "I see. I am to look upon my newfound domestic servant as the spoils of war. How touching." One hand reached out, and Qui-Gon took it, wincing a little at the palpable tremor in the muscles. His grip tightened until he could no longer feel the grim evidence of slow nerve decay.

"Qui."

"I missed you."

Tahl ignored the gentle profession of a shared… trust. She withdrew her hand. "You know you hurt his feelings."

He frowned briefly. "Garen? You are mistaken. He was-"

"_Obi-Wan,_ you witless gundark."

The Jedi master looked regretfully at his own hands, now folded in his lap. "He is Jedi. Such feelings are potentially deadly. And it falls to my lot to teach him _all_ that he must know. He trusts too easily, and too broadly."

"And that is a flaw?"

Qui-Gon scowled at the pool of golden radiance filling his upturned palms. "It is a vulnerability."

Tahl considered him gravely, her disapproval calling into his face a rising color that had not been seen since his own Padawan days. "So ruthless," she murmured at last. "After all these years, I never thought to hear you echo Dooku."

And having thus impaled him, she relented. "And now I've hurt _your _ feelings. Forgive me." A hand found his cheek and laid there, gently quivering. "Perhaps it is better if we do not speak."

He pledged his agreement without the use of words.

* * *

A somewhat abbreviated stint in the shower rooms and a strategic hastening to the corridor intersection nearest the senior Padawan dojo enabled Obi-Wan to corner his quarry as she emerged from the salles after the advanced saber class.

"Kenobi!" Siri Tachi's ice-blue gaze took his measure in a single sweeping glance, possibly comparing the present favorably with the past, noting what positive changes in stature and build the intervening year and a half had wrought. He patiently endured the inspection, eyebrows raised in mild challenge.

But Padawan Tachi seemed well satisfied. "Your saber form is better than ever," she informed him, twisting her damp shoulder-length hair into a knot at the back of her head and expertly fixing it in place with a leather tie. "Poor Garen may never recover….Though the _salute_ is a bit much, don't you think?"

His tongue seemed reluctant to obey the prompting of wit. "The salute…? It's-"

"Cocky," Siri decided, poking him lightly in the chest. Her lips quirked upward at the corners and she led the way into the concourse, drawing him along in her wake. "Like the cocky son of a vetch who extends a group training exercise for three extra days because he's incapable of surrender."

He found his voice, abruptly. "Or like the cocky barve who gossips about such things in the refectory?"

Siri cast him a sharp look and slowed their pace to allow a group of other young Jedi to pass them by. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He bit his lower lip, inwardly cursing. "I – nothing. I'm sorry. Garen is a good friend. It's just – I –"

She lifted a brow and turned on him, bringing them to a sudden halt, no more than a handswidth apart. "Garen is my friend too," she informed him. "So I'll converse with him if I please, Kenobi. And I don't want to hear any more about it from you."

Neither stepped back. "I didn't say anything!" he protested, ears burning, gut strangely twisting. It was difficult not to rise to the bait.

Siri Tachi leaned closer. Her breath was warm, scented of some sweet herb. "Let's keep it that way, then."

And she was off, 'saber hilt slapping hypnotically against her shapely thigh as she strode away down the hall in a graceful and highly dismissive straight line.

When he had managed to bring his pulse and breathing back under control, Obi-Wan continued on his way as well.

* * *

Tahl Uvain was still there when the Padawan returned to quarters that evening.

"Why, Padawan, what in the galaxy can have so occupied your time today?" she inquired, blind gaze resting on him fondly. "I've been limited to Qui-Gon's tiresome company all these long hours without you to liven the atmosphere."

The young Jedi hesitated, catching his master's eye. "I – ah… study, Master Uvain."

She snorted softly. "You mean pouting. Now come and sit with me. Tell me about the training exercise."

Obediently, he lowered himself to the floor at the room's single low table. "I'm sure Master Jinn has already reported in full," he groused.

Tahl smiled and slid her hands across the table to rest atop his. "And are you _still_ angry with him?"

Obi-Wan glanced up at his mentor, humorously. "A Jedi shall not know anger."

Qui Gon winked at him, sealing the truce. "Or revenge."

"Yes, master …. I leave your punishment to the will of the Force. I have no need to crave it on my own behalf."

The tall man made sure to give his apprentice's short nerf-tail a yank as he passed by on his way to fetch the tea bowls.

Obi Wan pressed Tahl's slightly trembling hands tight between his own, and she smiled gently on both Master and Padawan, as the Force warmed with a generous forgiveness, and the planet slowly rolled to a peaceful dusking.


	3. Chapter 3

Lineage VI

3.

The Council summons came early.

"Well," Obi-Wan remarked dryly as they entered the south tower lift and ascended the spire to its lofty pinnacle, "That's it, then. No rest for the weary."

Qui-Gon Jinn placed a hand on his shoulder. "Had you not needlessly and obstinately _delayed_ the training exercise, we might have enjoyed four solid days of leave," he pointed out mildly.

"Oh… yes." Chastened, the Padawan dropped his eyes to the floor.

The burnished doors parted, issuing them into the Council antechamber, where they waited only a few moments before being called into the Council room proper. Obi-Wan trailed a pace behind his master and took up his position to the tall man's left when they reached the center of the mosaic floor. Their formal bow was a graceful synchrony; two brown cloak hems skimmed the floor in silent unison. They folded hands into opposite sleeves with one motion, the unconscious perfect dance of a planet and its moon.

Jedi Master Depa Billaba smiled at the elegant display, her whimsical amusement lightening the Force for the briefest of moments. Mace Windu's dark gaze slid to his former Padawan, recently appointed Councilor, and the Korun Jedi's features might – perhaps- have softened into something verging on a smile before resuming their customary sternness.

"Master Jinn. Padawan Kenobi," he addressed them. "The Council has need of your skills. We have decided to send a team to the Xolinthi sector to investigate unconfirmed rumors of disrupted shipping routes, piracy, hijackings, and other trade-related corruption."

Qui-Gon nodded. "I am familiar with the situation."

Ki Adi Mundi acknowledged this with a gracious dip of his long, conical head. "Indeed. Your expertise on the subject will prove very useful. And full briefing materials will be made available to you immediately."

Mace picked up where the other master left off. "This, unfortunately, must be a covert operation at the outset. Without an official government or Senate request, we cannot openly interfere without causing further trouble in the region. Your mandate is to investigate, obtain evidence of wrongdoing, and report back to this Council and any relevant local authorities. Our hope is that concrete proof of criminal activity will encourage one or more of the affected systems to act. At that point, the Order would be justified in stepping in… aggressively."

Obi-Wan's head came up infinitesimally at the mention of possible hostilities, but Qui-Gon's steady gaze did not leave that of the gathered Councilors. He shifted his weight. "Covert as in undercover," he clarified.

"Yes," Master Yoda grunted, clasping the haft of his stick. "Assume false identities you both will. Selected appropriate aliases, we have. Opened trade negotiations with Gala, the Xolinthi Mercantile Cooperative has. A delegate they are expecting. A delegate we will send."

Qui-Gon raised his brows. "And the _real_ delegate?"

Mace leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Has been detained by our Sentinels. Prince Beju of Gala will be safely hidden in the Core while you undertake his business in his stead."

"And what role will my Padawan take on?" Qui-Gon asked, sparing a concerned glance at his young companion. "It is unlikely the Prince's retinue would include an adolescent."

Again, Depa Billaba's mirth warmed the Force with musical silence. Even Master Yoda was not immune to its effect. He chuckled throatily. "Correct you are, Qui-Gon," the Grand Master snorted.

The tall man shifted impatiently.

Mace was manifestly enjoying himself. His hands slid down to the wide-set armrests of his seat. "You misunderstand. _Padawan Kenobi_ will be the one assuming the Prince's identity. They are nearly the same age, and –judging by the holos we've studied - there is enough resemblance to be convincing, with minor adjustments."

At the word _adjustments, _ Obi-Wan again stirred. Qui-Gon shot him a restraining look.

"And I will act as Prime Minister or similar officer?"

"No," Mace answered, blithely. "You need to be in constant contact with the Prince, as I am sure you will agree." He waited for the tall man's nod of assent. "So you will play the part of Beju's personal valet."

Though not a soul made a sound, a burst of wicked delight set the Force to shuddering. However, this time it was not Master Billaba whose amusement shone so brightly in the Light. Qui-Gon turned a very stern eye on his apprentice, and the boy subsided into a deferent contemplation of the floor's delicate floral motif.

"A day to consult the intelligence files and to arrange with quartermaster and transport chief, you have," Yoda informed them. "Leave tomorrow you should, if to make the prearranged meeting you are."

Qui-Gon inhaled slowly, absorbing the full implications of this assignment. "We will set ourselves to the task without delay," he decided, bowing. Obi-Wan followed suit.

"May the Force be with you." Mace's dismissal may have contained a lingering undercurrent of humor, but it faded quickly into proper Jedi calm.

"Come, Padawan," Qui-Gon muttered, and led the way to the gleaming double doors, not deigning to look back.

* * *

"Personal valet," Obi-Wan smiled, folding his hands smugly into opposite sleeves and halting at the threshold to the Jedi Temple Archives.

"Gloating ill becomes a Jedi," Qui-Gon answered, repressively.

"But I think it suits a Prince very well, don't you agree, master? And I intend to apply myself to this assignment with utmost diligence."

The tall man looked down his long and crooked nose at his mischievous protégé. "It would seem you are to have your vengeance after all."

Obi-Wan's eyes gleamed. "It is the will of the Force, master… and you know it is my duty to lend my _whole_ strength to the accomplishment of such purposes."

"I've nourished a viper in my bosom," the Jedi master muttered.

They were joined a moment later by the redoubtable Jocasta Nu, resident Archivist and Jedi master of many decades' experience. Her glinting eyes encompassed them both in a single assessing glance before she graciously nodded her head in greeting. "Master Jinn. Padawan Kenobi."

The latter person made a respectful bow.

"I have prepared the relevant materials and reserved a private study room for you, on the lower level. I should be happy to assist you if you require anything else… but our records are _quite_ thorough."

They followed her along the main aisle of the central Archives stacks. "I have every confidence that we will find nothing missing," Qui-Gon soothed the fierce guardian of knowledge. "Thank you."

Jocasta issued them into a small alcove on the lower level, adjacent to the research droids' environment-controlled artifact center. The hovering denizens of this quiet domain watched the Jedi pass with wide, expressionless optic plates.

"Here," Qui-Gon instructed his young companion. "I will familiarize myself with the content of the trade meeting. You had best make a thorough study of Beju's habits and mannerisms. A convincing impersonation will depend greatly on your attention to detail. I suggest starting with the holos of his public addresses and interviews. That should give you a general feel for his persona."

Yes, master." Obi-Wan dutifully settled himself at one of the viewing terminals and slotted a datafile into the holoplate interface. Prince Beju of Gala appeared in shimmering blue effigy above the device's projector surface, and promptly launched into a bombastic speech to some unspecified audience. The Padawan watched five minutes of the recording, lip curling upward in disgust.

"This Prince certainly likes to hear himself talk," he remarked caustically.

Qui-Gon crossed his legs, not looking up from his data-reader. "Hm. That should make matters easier for you, Obi-Wan."

The young Jedi shot him an acid look over one shoulder. "Beju is a shallow, selfish nitwit!" he protested. "How am I supposed to imitate _that?"_

The Jedi master idly changed datachips and flicked the reader to the next document. "I have implicit faith in your abilities," he replied placidly.

Obi-Wan hunkered down before his own display again, favoring the Prince's image with a prolonged scowl of disapproval. "And he's _rude."_

Qui-Gon released a heavy sigh and glanced up, studying the hologram curiously. "He _does_ bear a resemblance to you," he decided. "How odd."

The Padawan squinted dubiously at the transparent portrait. "I don't see it," he grumbled.

"I daresay not," the older man blandly replied, and returned to his perusal of the briefing materials.

* * *

"But why do the _healers_ have to be involved?" Obi-Wan demanded.

Qui-Gon quirked a brow at his sullen learner, but Master BenTo Li spared him the trouble of answering. The senior healer swept into the small room rubbing his long hands together in anticipatory glee. "Because I do so enjoy inflicting suffering upon you, Padawan," he snapped.

"What's _that_ for?" the intended victim asked, eyeing a small implement into which BenTo expertly fitted a large gemstone set on a thin, sharp post.

"Beju has a pierced ear," Qui-Gon reminded him. "As your _detailed_ study of his habits and manners already revealed to you."

"Hold still, you wretch," Ben To barked, making short work of the piercing.

"_Son of a Sith,"_ Obi-Wan hissed, fingering the place where an enormous glittering jewel now adorned his earlobe.

The healer rolled his eyes. "It stings for _three_ seconds."

"So gauche," the Padawan muttered, still fiddling with the ostentatious ornament.

"Hands off. You'll encourage infection. Now," Ben-To continued, brusquely, "There's nothing we can do about your height deficiency. Hopefully nobody will notice. But the hair is another matter."

"What? Master!"

Qui-Gon leaned against the doorframe. "It needs to be considerably darker and longer," he remarked. "It won't _hurt,_ if that's what disturbs you so."

Obi-Wans' mouth thinned mutinously. "I am _not_ enduring any vile star-forsaken cosmetician's foppery."

"On the contrary, young one, you will do exactly that because I am ordering you to comply."

Ben To moved in for the kill, armed with a panoply of dyes and hair extensions. "You'll come out of it with your manhood intact," he promised. "Unless there's some small detail about Beju you've neglected to mention?"

The Padawan bared his teeth and glared ferociously at both his tormentors, but the battle was already lost. And of the three men present in the room, he was the only one who did not seem to find the proposed alterations exceedingly amusing.

"What about my braid?" he frowned.

"Ah." Ben To's jesting manner dissipated. "I'm sorry, but we'll have to unbind it. Master Jinn can re-tie it for you when this mission is finished."

The Padawan's surly manner melted into something much softer. "Oh."

Qui-Gon stepped forward and silently set to work on the thin learner's plait, carefully storing the beads and markers in his own tunic pocket as he unwound the painstakingly woven strands.

Obi-Wan tucked his folded arms in close to his body, scowling.

"It is only a symbol," Qui-Gon quietly assured him. "The reality resides in here." He tapped his apprentice's chest and continued to unwind the tight plaiting. "Just as the reality of you remains in here while the outside takes on the appearance of Beju. Center yourself in the truth, not the symbol."

They sat in silence until the task was finished, and even then Ben To respectfully waited another few moments before setting to work.

* * *

"It suits you well," Qui-Gon decided as they exited the healer's ward an hour later. He tugged on the luxurious mahogany ponytail tied behind his student's head. "Beju's" combed and curled tresses made a startling difference in Obi-Wan's appearance. For a moment, the tall man was alarmingly reminded of Xanatos DuCrion.

He thrust the unwelcome memory away and smiled inwardly at his current Padawan's predicament. "Shall we dine in quarters or in the refectory tonight?" he innocently inquired.

Obi-Wan stalked down the concourse ahead of him. "I'm not _eating,"_ the young Jedi growled. "I have to maintain my girlish figure."

The Jedi master's eyes twinkled merrily. "And how are you enjoying your revenge thus far, Padawan mine? Is it all you hoped for and more?"

"It will be," his disgruntled apprentice threatened. He came to a sudden halt around the next bend. "Oh, blast."

"Padawan."

"I'm sorry master, I just-"

The clack of a blunt gimer stick against polished marble interrupted their exchange, and presently Master Yoda's wizened figure emerged from an adjacent classroom, preceded by a gaggle of very small initiates who were shepherded away by their crèche-master before any of them could look twice at the Jedi in the hall.

Master Yoda, however, was not so preoccupied. His gimlet eyes slid upward with a glint of impish delight. "Transformed, you are, young Obi-Wan," the ancient Jedi crooned. "Ready for Coruscant Intergalactic Beauty Pageant."

The Padawan's eyes widened in pained mortification.

"We depart at first light," Qui-Gon informed the Grand Master. "Our preparations are nearly complete… as you can see."

Yoda chuffed and snorted his amusement, clawed hands balanced atop his gnarled stick's haft. "May the Force be with you," he grunted, dismissing them with a nod and the lingering echo of a smile curving his wrinkled lips.

Master and apprentice bowed deeply in respect and waited until the ancient one had shuffled on his way before heading down the concourse again.

"…Master?"

"What is it now, my coiffed and perfumed brat?"

"Do you suppose Master Yoda has ever _attended _ a beauty pageant?"

Even Qui-Gon Jinn could not help but stumble a little in mid-stride at the particularly satirical image that was projected across their shared Force bond. He cleared his throat, and glanced sideways at his smirking Padawan.

"I think Prince Beju might benefit from some disciplinary exercises this evening," he decided.

* * *

"You should turn in for the night, young one. We depart before dawn."

Obi-Wan tugged irritably at his ear lobe, fingering the unfamiliar gemstone fixed there.

"And stop that – you'll encourage infection."

"Yes, master."

When the Padawan showed no signs of retiring to his bedroom, Qui-Gon lifted a brow. "You have qualms about some aspect of this mission. Your role?"

"I – that is… there are some things in the biographical profile… certain, ah…well."

The tall man frowned over this inarticulate revelation for a moment. He gently reached for his apprentice's inchoate thoughts across their bond, feeling a blushing reticence on the opposite end. Comprehension dawned. He suppressed a chuckle. "Ah. Our royal friend has a reputation as a _playboy."_

Obi-Wan exhaled sharply. "That may prove challenging."

"Hm." It was a fair point, one he had overlooked. But it was not outside all possibility that the Xolinthi would wish to entertain their distinguished guest in the manner to which he was accustomed. Or in this case, most distinctly _not_ accustomed. "Indeed. A deficit in your training which we will have to fill as best we can."

The young Jedi's expression of horror was comical.

"Obi-Wan. Calm yourself." Qui-Gon indicated the meditation cushions in the common area. "Sit. I'll prepare some tea."

A minute later he pressed a hot ceramic bowl into his student's hands. "Drink. And relax. Should occasion arise, your instincts will serve you well.. So long as you do not focus on your anxieties, the Force will guide you."

The Padawan stared at him, mental shields slamming into place. The tea remained untouched.

Qui-Gon considered his young companion carefully.

"I do not think you are as immune to the temptations of nature as you make out," he said, with a hint of asperity. "I was once sixteen myself."

Blue eyes flashed upward, resentful. A tell-tale furrow appeared between the Padawans' brows. "That's not the point!" he objected hotly. "I simply don't wish to… be put in a position to compromise my honor, or that of another person. I won't do it."

The tall man sighed. "This would be easier were you less of a romantic and more of a pragmatist."

It was difficult to say which term was more insulting to the intended subject. Obi-Wan glowered. "Prince Beju is about to undergo a sudden reformation of character," he declared stubbornly. "As of this instant."

Qui-Gon pointed a cautionary finger at him. "He might not be the only one." He waited for the defiant spark to burn out. "Which approach do you favor, Padawan? I can either advise you to listen to the Living Force and your intuition, and to seek a solution when the problem presents itself – or," he paused dramatically to emphasize his deadly earnestness, "we can take an air speeder into the red light district this very night, and put you through a comprehensive crash course in all the niceties before we depart."

He had the grim satisfaction of having struck his apprentice speechless for the second time in a week.

"That is what I thought you would say," he answered the appalled silence. "The Force is your ally. Now drink up, and get yourself to bed."

And only after his instructions had been obeyed with a meek alacrity, and the Padawan had retired for the night, did it occur to him that he had just used as a _threat_ that which any number of boisterous youths in any corner of the galaxy might have considered an enticement beyond their wildest pubescent dreams.

"Ah, Obi-Wan," he chuckled, as he headed to his own room to retire for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lineage VI**

* * *

**Chapter 4.**

Qui-Gon Jinn finished his morning tea – a ritual undertaken in solitary quiet, a time to rejoice in the Living Force's limpid perpetual dawn, to organize the tasks pertaining to the day ahead – and decided that it would be prudent to move the time of their intended departure forward an hour.

"Obi-Wan," he said, leaning in the doorway of the second bedroom. The Padawan was sprawled belly-first across the entirety of his sleep mattress, face buried in the misshapen lump of a single ascetical pillow.

"…. Obscenely early, master," came the muffled and half-slurred response.

"Your Royal Highness may wish to be apprised that we leave in twenty minutes."

There was a feeble stirring, and the young Jedi's face turned toward the speaker, though he did not open his eyes. A beam of light from the open doorway fell full across his features, picking out the subtle smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "His Royal Highness is not amused by your pathetic joke. Gurads, take this lanky buffoon away and find me a better court jester."

The tall man raised one brow. "The Prince may wish to get his Royal Arse out of bed, expeditiously."

"You bore me," the Prince drawled, with exquisite languor, snuggling deeper into the mattress.

Qui-Gon crossed the small room in one long stride. It was only well-honed Jedi reflexes that saved the Royal Arse from a sharp and carefully-aimed blow. It landed upon the hard floor with an audible thump instead.

"Eighteen minutes," the Jedi master informed his sprawling and by now quite alert apprentice. "The quartermaster has provided us with suitable clothing – wash up, change, and we'll be off."

"Without _breakfast, _of course," the young Jedi groused, rising fluidly to his feet and stifling a wide yawn.

"Seventeen and a half minutes."

* * *

Obi-Wan worked well under the pressure of a deadline. A quarter-hour later, a veritable stranger presented himself for Qui-Gon's final inspection – though the slightly peeved tightening of the young man's lips did bespeak an unvoiced but thorough disapproval of the apparel provided for his use.

"Very…becoming," Qui-Gon chuckled. "Lavender synthsilk suits you. It brings out your eyes."

The Padawan ground his teeth and plucked irritably at his lace cuffs. "For stars' sake," he muttered. "_You _don't look like a blithering idiot."

"Apparently the Prince's personal valet prefers simple attire. Beju, himself, however…."

"Requires his domestic servants to keep their sartorial opinions to themselves," the chagrined youth snapped.

The Jedi master merely smiled enigmatically.

"What about my 'saber?" Obi-Wan demanded, eyeing his close-cut ensemble with a critical disdain. "Where am I supposed to conceal it this idiot's costumery?"

Qui-Gon tilted his head to one side. "It will have to go under the jacket, against your side." He folded aside the heavy embroidered cloth and peered at the shimmering lining. "It's the only feasible option. Many people carry a small blaster in the same place; a bulge will attract little attention."

The young Jedi was not pleased, but he capitulated with a vexed shrug. "Fine. Let's hope I don't need to use it."

"Indeed. I am carrying my weapon, of course. If there is danger, you will not be alone."

Obi Wan offered him a wry smile. "As long as we're _both_ compromised, then."

"Misery loves company, young one. Shall we?"

"What about breakfast, master?"

"It is _Jinnson_ now, if you please. And breakfast will have to be postponed indefinitely. Prince Beju is not an early riser, and habitually does not partake of morning meal. You'd best get in the habit if this is to be a convincing charade."

"You mean a _farce,_ ma- Jinnson. A tasteless farce."

"As you say, my Prince."

The Padawan broke into a mischievous grin. "On the other hand, perhaps I could grow accustomed to this."

"….Brat."

* * *

The Republic shuttle cleared Coruscant's atmosphere before the morning rush.

"Good," Qui-Gon remarked, briskly programming the navicomp. "We should be at Medruu within two hours, where we shall meet the remainder of the Prince's staff."

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly through gritted teeth as the small vessel made its hyperspace jump. "Staff?" he inquired, when they were safely hurtling through a netherworld of warped space at speeds beyond reckoning. "How many more people will be involved?"

"A dozen." The Jedi master informed him. "But they are not privy to the deception. To the best of their knowledge, they have been hired by Beju to escort him to the summit with the Xolinthi. You will have a pilot, co-pilot, ship's mechanic, eight security guards, and a specialized protocol droid in your personal retinue, besides myself. The instant we greet them, you must assume the identity of the Prince. And I think it would be best if we continued that role-playing effort even in private, while on board the Galan yacht. There are many ears on a royal ship, and bulkheads are thin."

"Yes, master – I understand."

"Good. Let us use this time remaining wisely. I will brief you on the relevant details regarding the Xolinthi sector situation. Beju is not a well-informed ruler; his motivation in meeting with the Xolinthi is simply that of greed. He hopes to enter into a favorable Trade agreement with them- one to replace the existing Trade Federation contract with his world."

The Padawan frowned. "The Nemoidians will not be pleased with that development."

"Perhaps not. You must stress that fact when you speak with the Xolinth Prime."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Beju does not seem to be an intelligent person," he observed. "Perhaps he has not fully weighed the consequences of his ambition."

"Likely not, but he, like any figurehead, is backed by advisors and aides who have at least nominally more sense in their heads. The invitation for a personal meeting was issued on the part of the Xolinthi. They are not fools, and wish to deal with the least qualified member of the Galan Parliament."

"The hereditary ruler," Obi-Wan snorted. "Of course. And what are the Xolinthi suspected of doing, master? Our mandate was rather vague."

The Jedi master nodded his reluctant agreement. "This assignment is open-ended. There have been reports of hijacked freighters, rumors of blackmail, an increased traffic in smuggling illegal goods, and a widespread stirring of unease in the industrial interests in the sector. Such is the evidence of scattered intelligence reports from Jedi on journey missions in the area, and from their contacts. None of the affected governments has yet issued a complaint or submitted a request for Senate intervention, which leads me to suspect coercion."

"In short, we are to look for trouble in general."

Qui-Gon spread his large hands. "It _is_ vague. But no less dangerous for being so. The Xolinthi are officially a Mercantile Exchange Limited Liability Company. But my instinct tells me that beneath that euphemistic name, they are a cunning and ruthless crime syndicate." He hesitated. "..Or perhaps something worse."

"So I'm to undertake a nice, civilized palaver with utterly reprehensible scum?"

The Jedi master's mouth quirked upward at one corner. "Admit it, Padawan, you are quite looking forward to it."

* * *

They arrived at the lavishly appointed Medruu Intergalactic Spaceport an hour ahead of schedule.

"Excellent," Qui-Gon breathed, leading the way out of the docking bay and into the bustling pedestrian and mercantile arcade. Affluent Core tourists and businessmen thronged into exclusive tariff-free shopping malls and exotic restaurants. Servitor droids buzzed overhead, and a delicate perfume was cycled through the air by the humming atmospheric controls. Curved panoramic windows provided a spectacular view of the asteroid belt beyond. "We've arrived ahead of our rendezvous. We just have time to ease you more fully into character."

"But -" Obi-Wan hurried along beside the dark-liveried Jedi master. "Mas- Jinnson, what do you mean?"

The tall man made a beeline for the gaudily festooned entryway of _The Event Horizon, _ a slick and fashionable bar. Pulsing synthband music set the entire corridor outside to shaking. Upper-caste youth and be-jeweled sophisticates flocked to its doors. "Beju is just returning from Coruscant and will be eager to wet his whistle before the next leg of his journey. You _did_ study his biographical profile closely, did you not?"

"Yes, m- yes, I did! But that does not mean –"

"Prince Beju," Qui-Gon interrupted sharply. "_Focus_. Purpose and duty before personal scruples."

The Prince visibly deflated. He slunk along at his valet's heels, edging warily closer to the upscale den of debauchery.

Jinnson shot him a warning glare just as they made it to the doors. A burly Klatooinian barred their way. "Identification, " the bouncer grunted, narrowing his yellow eyes at the adolescent aristocrat.

The smug air of challenge did wonders for Prince Beju's spirits. His chest swelled dramatically.. "How dare you? Do you have any idea who I _am,_ you fatherless half-wit troglodyte?"

Qui-Gon quirked an amused brow. The Klatooinian seized the upstart Prince by his lace collar and lifted him several centimeters off the ground. "I don't kriffin' care who you is. I want yer _I.D., _eejit."

Jinnson stepped into smooth over the incipient misunderstanding. He deftly slipped the Klatooinian a large credit chip. "His credentials are impeccable."

The Prince stumbled backward as he was unceremoniously dropped to his feet.

"_Plebian slob,"_ the young man spat as he shouldered his way past the bouncer and into the bar's deafening interior. Jinnson followed close behind.

"A trifle over-done, I think," he advised his young protégé.

"I don't pay you for your unsolicited opinion, Jinnson," Beju retorted sourly. He looked around at the pulsing dance-floor lights, the writhing band audience, the garish décor and inebriated clientele, his mouth hardening in distaste.

Jinnson hooked an arm though his elbow and dragged him forward to the bar, where a brightly polished insectoid manned the counter.

"Prince Beju will have his regular," the tall man murmured to the bartender, leaning over the polished surface to make himself heard over the pervasive din. Obi-Wan warily took up position on one of the molded stools.

The insectoid slid a fluted cylinder of smoking violet liquid across the gleaming surface. The Prince eyed it in alarm, not making a move.

"We've practiced this," the Jedi master murmured in his ear, taking up a position directly beside him. "Assimilate and purge. Beju is well-known for his over-indulgence, and the occasion is likely to arise again."

The Padawan's fingers curled around the glass. "I'm not sure –"

"Bottoms up," Jinnson cheerily advised.

Beju did his duty, choking on the fiery aftertaste and flushing a delicate pink as the concoction hit his bloodstream. "Ugh…"

"Focus."

The Prince closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He clutched the curved edge of the bar and said nothing for a few minutes. Eventually, however, he straightened his spine manfully and smirked at his valet. "You cannot intimidate me, Jinnson."

The bartender hovered nearer. "Another?" it asked in a bored monotone, antennae waving solicitously.

"No-"

"Of course," the Beju's servant replied, shooting the young man a severe look. He slid the requisite payment across the counter. "We do not want His Highness to grow _bored_."

* * *

Somewhat over an hour later, Prince Beju emerged from _The Event Horizon, _staggering unsteadily in the grip of his valet.

"This way, your Highness," Jinnson urged him, directing the Prince's faltering steps in the right direction. The tall man cast a quick glance upward at the hovering cam-droid that burbled along behind them at a measured distance, his lips tightening.

The Prince made some inarticulate protest as he was dragged forward along the bustling spaceport concourse.

"We _did_ practice," his valet reminded him in a low tone. "Though….ah, perhaps not _enough."_

The droid whizzed along behind them, angling its sensor array just-so.

"….strictly necessary?" the young aristocrat complained, lurching into Jinnson as he nearly lost his balance.

"I'm afraid so," the latter person murmured, watching the surveillance device skim over the heads of the crowd, apparently satisfied with whatever intelligence it had collected. "Beju is being watched… and your debut performance was both memorable and convincing."

"Going to retch all over your boots," the suffering youth proclaimed.

"Hold it till we're on board," his servant heartlessly commanded, readjusting his grip and guiding them on a weaving path to the nearby docking hangar.

The hired pilots and staff waited at the base of the boarding ramp, clad in a standard Royal Galan Navy uniforms. The mechanics and security guards kept their gazes politely fixed on a distant point as their planet's hereditary ruler was half-carried across the duracrete landing pad, but the silver protocol unit– a burnished model outfitted with a singularly unattractive facial plate and an air of snobbish disaffectation- snorted in contempt as the pair drew nigh.

"Been at it again, has he?" this metallic person sniffed, vocabulator grating with the robotic equivalent of a throaty snarl. "I've heard the tales. You – Jinnson, I presume – you may dump him in the Royal Fresher and then proceed to the cockpit. We'll require some sober individual's thumbprint on the flight plan before departure. There _are_ protocols to be observed here, you know."

The droid turned on its heel and led the way up the ramp, the remainder of the crew waiting a deferent space of time and distance before ascending into the gleaming ship after their incapacitated employer.

* * *

Jinnson found the royal cabin and deposited his load on its single luxurious bunk. 'I'll be back in a moment, Your Highness. The facilities are just there." He indicated the narrow door across the room.

Beju rolled into a miserable ball and groaned. "People do this for _pleasure?_"

The tall man smiled ruefully. _Use the Force, _ he projected across their shared bond.

A flick of the Prince's wrist sent a satin pillow flying at the valet's head, in conformity with the suggestion.

The Jedi master excused himself and went forward to the cockpit, where the pilot presented the official flight instructions and employment contract for his approval. He sealed the document with a thumbprint, hoping that the official record would not somehow lead to the discovery of their subterfuge. The co-pilot filed the datapad away and programmed the navcomp while Jinnson peered through the ship's viewport, scanning the hangar bay.

The surveillance drone slipped out of his line of vision just as he turned his head in its direction, but he sensed its presence anyway.

He passed back through the main hold, where the security detail was busy entertaining itself with a game of sabaac. The burly men paid him no heed, studying their cards intently as he slipped by. He was accosted outside the Prince's cabin by the sour-tempered protocol unit.

"I am familiar with the most common forms of humanoid vice," the droid burbled at him. "And I am familiar with Prince Beju's habit of replacing his loose-tongued staff every few weeks. I, of course, do not suffer from a need to disseminate libelous reports to the ignorant masses. But that does not mean, Mr. Jinnson, that I _approve."_

"His Royal Highness appreciates your discretion," the tall man soothed the affronted robot.

"Hmph," it snorted, waving a gleaming, articulated hand. "To be clear: I am a protocol expert, not a babysitter. All unsavory task pertaining to the Prince's personal hygienic needs and the arrangements requisite to the perpetuation of his vices are strictly your duty, Mr Jinnson. I will perform my assigned role with great diligence and accuracy, but I will not stoop to such depths of servitude." Here the droid drew itself up with a fairly impressive semblance of sentient dignity, and Qui-Gon was hard put to smother his smile.

The Jedi master merely offered his interlocutor a curt bow. "You make yourself perfectly understood. If you will excuse, me, I must return to my unsavory duties."

The droid nodded its shining head in satisfaction and tottered away down the corridor again, leaving Mr. Jinnson to suit actions to his words.

* * *

"You'll recover," Qui-Gon assured his pale and shivering apprentice a half-hour later, having cleaned the Prince up after a prolonged sick spell and tucked him beneath the cabin's opulent _ersu-_ down comforter. "And live to be a wiser man."

Obi-Wan's retort was, thankfully, too garbled by exhaustion to be understood.

"Purging toxins is an invaluable skill," the Jedi master continued. "You will doubtlessly be plied with liquor and other intoxicants during this mission. I suggest a more _diligent_ application of the techniques I showed you."

The Prince emitted a soft moan. _Yes, master… _ came the unspoken response, a dull and dutiful flicker across their bond.

"Good boy." The tall man gave his student's chin an affectionate nudge and stood to stretch. "This assignment may have many unexpected challenges, in point of fact."

Beju started to mumble something further, but abruptly fell asleep in mid-sentence, leaving Qui-Gon to silently ponder exactly what those unexpected challenges might be.


	5. Chapter 5

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 5.

* * *

"Stand aside, you."

The Galan ship's co-pilot, having been thus banished from his rightful place in the cockpit, retreated to the passenger hold with a deferent bow, relinquishing his seat at the forward console to Prince Beju.

"Aren't we there yet?" the young aristocrat demanded, peering disdainfully at the navicomp's steadily blinking display.

"The drives are at maximum, your Highness," the pilot muttered. "Our hyperlane route had to be adjusted due to anomalous gravitational factors in the-"

"Don't bore me with your driveling technical jargon!" Beju snapped irritably. "Just make the ship go faster." He flopped backward in the co-pilot's chair and rocked it sullenly side to side, drumming fingers against the armrests.

The Galan pilot pressed his lips together and fretted with the instrument panel, keeping a wary eye on his Prince.

Mr. Jinnson appeared discreetly in the hatchway. "If it pleases your Highness, a light repast has been prepared for your –"

"You bore me, Jinnson!" the heir to Gala's throne sniffed. "I can't eat with this wretched headache. Do something about it, would you?"

The tall man raised an eyebrow at the languid wave of his employer's hand. "Would your Highness care for a painkiller? Perhaps –"

His suggestion was interrupted by a dismissive snort from the Prince, who swiveled around to face his valet squarely. "I said, _do something,_ Jinnson – not stand there tormenting me with your tedious conversation."

Mr Jinnson was apparently possessed of saintly patience, for he met this lambasting accusation with nothing more than a tight smile and a tolerant nod. "Of course." He withdrew in the next moment, leaving the pilot at Beju's mercy.

"Get me the Xolinthi Prime on a secure channel," the Prince commanded.

"But your Highness, we are not able to send a secure transmission while in hyperspace –"

"Then revert, you twit! You bore me with your excuses!"

The man cringed, and obediently set about calculating a safe reversion point. "Yes, Prince Beju. It will be done immediately."

"Better," the young man huffed, glaring crossly at the viewport, where smears and sworls of disjointed light now reformed themselves into discrete points, a spangled tapestry of stars against the black of endless night.

"It may take a moment to obtain a clear comm frequency," the nervous pilot explained, furiously working at the instrument panel. "We are not near a major relay hub, and –"

"Just do it, man! Beju snarled. "Less chatter, more obedience!"

Mr Jinnson reappeared, announcing his presence with a small cough. The Prince offered him a widely expressive grin behind the beleaguered pilot's back while the poor man struggled with the communications equipment. Jinnson raised a repressive eyebrow and offered his employer a small tumbler of frothing liquid. "A tonic," he explained.

Beju tossed this medicinal beverage back in one go and returned the glass. "Disgusting, Jinnson," he said. "Never bring that to me again, on pain of my displeasure."

"I would not dare displease you, my lord," his valet replied with a singularly dry inflection.

* * *

The Xolinthi Prime, Hiu Merggum, was so tall and broad that he exceeded the narrow camera angle of his holo-transceiver. His personage seemed to overflow the boundaries of the projection plate, never quite contained within its flickering parameters.

"Prince Beju!" the enormous head of the Xolinthi Mercantile Exchange boomed, his deep voice broken into garbled fragments by the bad connection. "You are late for our meeting. My people were afraid that you had reneged upon our agreement."

The Prince waved an indolent hand. "I was detained by the incompetence of my underlings," he explained. "We are behind schedule, but eager to meet with your, ah, esteemed corporate officers. Gala looks forward to hearing your proposal regarding our planetary welfare."

Hiu Merggum grinned, revealing slightly pointed teeth. "Excellent," he purred, folding vast hands over his protuberant belly. "We shall provide a welcoming party to receive you upon your arrival. Please, use my private docking pad. I will instruct the space traffic control to direct you in."

Beju nodded regally. "Merggum," he said. "Dare I ask whom else is involved? I should be quite vexed if there were any tiresome people present.. I have had quite my share of boring nincompoops with all the Trade Federation envoys pestering me."

The Xolinthi chief of staff frowned, pulling his ridged forehead into a series of deep creases. "The Nemoidians? I am… surprised they were informed of our meeting."

Beju leaned back in his chair. "Well, however they obtained their information, they've been a lot of vexatious gnats ever since. Please tell me we shan't have anything to do with them."

Merggum relaxed. "I can assure you, my Prince, that a favorable Trade Contract with the Xolinthi Cooperative would relieve you of their burdensome presence – permanently."

"Good," the Prince answered, stifling a yawn behind one ring-bedecked hand. "Then this should be somewhat entertaining."

Hiu Merggum bowed. "I shall inform the Board of your imminent arrival, then."

Beju waved him away nonchalantly. "Yes, yes… "

When the transmission had been cut and the Xolinthi's enormous blue image had faded into non-existence, the Prince turned upon the unfortunate pilot once again. "Well, man? What are you waiting for? We've a meeting to attend – and it would be so _uncouth_ to arrive late for the festivities."

"Yes, your Highness."

Beju stood and stretched. "And where is that dratted co-pilot? What's he doing neglecting his duties in the hold while he's on shift? I should have him reprimanded for such slovenly comportment!"

The pilot merely hunkered down in his seat and said nothing as the Prince stormed off to upbraid his unlucky colleague.

* * *

Hiu Merggum was a man – or Weequay – of his word. He greeted his royal guests in person, waiting in his private docking hangar at the Xolinthi Corporate Headquarters.

Beju gazed round the vast, polished durasteel interior of the landing bay, a niche craved out of the largest asteroid in the Xolinthi Triplex system's sprawling outer belt. The three suns were visible beyond the magcon field, a shimmering cluster of angry red eyes staring balefully through the energy barrier at the Galan envoys.

Merggum swept a low bow. "A pleasure to welcome you to our humble abode," he rumbled. "Your servants and escorts are unnecessary, I assure you. The Xolinthi will see to your every comfort while you are our guest, Prince Beju."

The young aristocrat offered a bland smile but did not dismiss his retinue. The eight bodyguards, the protocol droid, and Mr. Jinnson followed the Prince and the Director across the echoing decks. Vast overhead illuminators were dully reflected in the polished surface.

"I trust your journey was pleasant?" the Weequay politely continued as they exited the docking area and passed into the Collective's headquarters. Plastoid paneling gave way to elaborately carved stone and wrought metal fittings. Lush carpeting muffled their footfalls as they wended their way deep into the stronghold.

"Dreadful," the Prince informed him. "And in such tiresome company, too."

Merggum halted beneath a high arch, the threshold to a central chamber surrounded by a second-tier balcony. "You will be glad to hear, then, that I have taken the liberty of arranging a reception in your honor, tonight. Your Highness will have an opportunity to meet some of the other investors in our scheme."

Beju waved an airy hand. "Ah, yes, the usual routine. I shall make an appearance, of course. In the meantime…?"

"Your accommodations, of course," the Xolinthi Prime smiled graciously, leading them forward again. Many pairs of eyes peered over the ornate railings above as they crossed the grand salon. "You have your own staff, I understand, but my household servants are at your disposal. Your droid has already forwarded the proper instructions."

"I hope so," the Prince drawled. "I am exceedingly weary – space travel is so enervating, you know."

Hiu Merggum ushered them solicitously into the lavish visitors' wing and made his farewells, expressing his eagerness to see the Prince again at the evening's reception. When he had withdrawn, leaving his guests and their bodyguard in the foyer of the extensive guest suite, Beju flopped onto the nearest overstuffed settee and snapped his fingers.

"Leave my presence," he barked at his companions. "I require a moment of privacy."

The Galan security detail made themselves scarce, disappearing into the adjacent portions of the suite with an alacrity bespeaking a certain relief to be free of their employer's company. Jinnson locked the sitting room doors behind them.

"Ah, Jinnson," the Prince moaned, sinking further into the soft pillows of his lounge. "I am fatigued. Kindly remove my footwear."

The long-suffering royal valet dutifully knelt at Beju's feet and tugged on one fashionable boot. "You," he murmured in a low tone, "are a reprehensibly ill-mannered, self-centered, obnoxious and utterly spoiled _brat."_

The subject of this accusation grinned impishly. "Thank you, master," the youth replied. "You are my guiding light and example in all things…. Are you quite sure this room isn't bugged?"

Qui-Gon cast a swift appraising look about their surroundings. "Merggum would not be such a fool. Any security force worth its pay nowadays would be outfitted with a state of the art scanner. No, I sense that he relies on sentient spies and informants to accomplish his espionage. Be wary of any who work for him."

The Padawan made a wry face as he struggled out of Beju's lavendar synthsilk jacket and flung the offending garment aside. "These clothes are punishing," he griped, working at the lace collar with the determination of a hanged man wriggling free of a noose. "What do you suppose is the true purpose of this reception planned for tonight?"

The Jedi master eased himself into one of the comfortable chairs. "Merely to wine and dine His Royal Highness, Beju of Gala. Remember, the Prince is not famous for his penetrating wit nor his steadfast principles. I am sure Merggum intends to charm the Prince into cooperating with this contract agreement. But we shall take careful note of all who attend."

"Yes," Obi-Wan agreed. "He did say _scheme. _Perhaps the Xolinthi are plotting against the Nemoidians? That's quite plausible – they are rivals. Nor is it illegal, master."

The tall man nodded thoughtfully. "My instincts tell me there is more brewing here than a simple corporate coup. Be mindful."

Beju sprawled lazily against the brushed velveteen cushions. "Oh don't worry," he assured Qui-Gon with a tiny smirk. "I'll watch my back… especially with you lingering so close behind me, oh my traitorous and deceiving master."

The older Jedi merely raised a brow. "His Highness would do well to remember that this mission will inevitably end in his abnegation of both title and all privileges pertaining thereto, including that of running the royal mouth without _due consequence_."

The Prince yawned. "But I thought I was to focus on the present moment? And, at this moment –"

His next witticism was interrupted by a smart rapping on the suite's main doors. Jinnson sprang up to answer the summons.

"Yes, yes, that will do," the silver protocol unit dithered, directing a foursome of porters into the apartment. Two full hover-trolleys of suitcases and valises followed this workforce over the threshold. "Just put the Prince's wardrobe in the master bedchamber."

Beju's lip curled apprehensively at the mention of _wardrobe_.

The droid bustled into the sitting room accompanied by two blushing servant girls bearing an arsenal of perfumes and soft cloths. "There is just time to prepare for the reception," the mechanical protocol expert announced. "Director Merggum has sent personal bath attendants to assist you, Your Royal Highness."

The Prince pulled his shirt closed and straightened his posture. The humanoid maidens turned a duskier shade of violet, their wide eyes growing wider.

"Thank you –" Jinnson began.

"That won't do at all!" Beju hastily interrupted. "It is against traditional Galan custom for any but my valet to render such assistance. How dare you insult me with such a suggestion?"

The droid's joints creaked indignantly as it jerked its hands upward. "I am an expert in interplanetary ceremonial rubrics, and there is absolutely no such custom –" it blustered.

"There is now, you cybernetic dolt!" the Prince snapped. He waved a dismissive arm at the girls. "My Royal Form is too sublime to be viewed by mere plebians. Be gone."

"Well, I never!" the poor droid hurrumphed, chivvying the confused serving girls out the door.

Beju slumped back against the couch's wide backrest. "That was close."

Jinnson escorted the porters back into the hallway and sealed the entrance once more. "Your _royal form_," he placidly addressed his young charge, "is about to receive the whipping it so richly deserves."

"Corporeal chastisement is against the Code," Beju reminded him pertly.

"Ah… but that applies only to Jedi Padawans. There is no provision forbidding the just and needful thrashing of a _Prince,_ in the line of duty."

Obi-Wan thought about it. "Oh… Well, then."

"Well then _what_?" Qui-Gon pressed, brows raised.

His apprentice squirmed. "I'm sorry, master - but there are limits… and did you _see_ how they were ogling me?"

The tall man sighed. "You are hopeless, Obi-Wan." He raised a warning finger. "I expect the Prince to behave in characteristic manner tonight. Duty before personal feelings."

The Padawan's shoulders slumped perceptibly. "Yes, master."

"Good. In the meanwhile, the droid had a good point. You barely have time to bathe and don formal attire before this event. Now get on with it."

The Prince quailed beneath his valet's stern regard and grumpily retreated into the adjacent bedchamber to effect the requisite transformation. His yelp of disgust at beholding the finery laid out for his use was audible in the next room.

"Duty," Jinnson called merrily after him.

* * *

"Hold still, Padawan – and not a word of complaint."

"I didn't say anything… besides, I was simply wondering why Beju submits to such indignity."

Qui-Gon Jinn regarded his student quizzically. 'Perhaps he _likes_ these clothes."

"If _I_ were hereditary ruler of a system, I would certainly _not_ allow such absurdities near my person."

"The tailors' guild would have you assassinated, then," the tall man responded mildly.

Beju snorted. "I'm trembling in my star-forsaken pointy-toe boots. Don't ever tell me you'd like to be in a Prince's shoes. It is distinctly _uncomfortable."_

"I think you've begun identifying with your role, Padawan – the incessant whining is beginning to _bore_ me."

Obi-Wan did not join in his mentor's soft chuckle of amusement. "You do know why the Council selected us for this assignment, do you not, master?"

Qui-Gon made final adjustments to the Galan Prince's formal attire – a sartorial extravagance concocted of heavy brocade and severely starched linens. "I believe it was your uncanny resemblance to Beju, in conjunction with my experience and our availability for immediate assignment."

"No, master," his protégé insisted, grimacing at his reflection in the mirror. "It was because of that business on Malomar. Had you not defied the Council –"

"We would still be here," the Jedi master placidly informed him. "Unless you are accusing master Yoda of such base motives as petty revenge?"

"Not revenge, master. An _object lesson,"_ Obi-Wan insisted. "Such as you are in the habit of employing for obscure educational purposes."

The tall man quirked a smile. "What a suspicious and calculating mind you possess, my Padawan. I do not believe in retributive pedagogical methods." He settled an elaborately sculptured coronet upon the Prince's brow and stepped back to admire his handiwork. "That is what the dojo is for."

Obi-Wan fidgeted about for another minute and then surrendered to his fate with a deep sigh. "I look frightful." He brightened slightly at the prospect. "…But perhaps the ridiculous costume will prove a deterrent?"

Qui-Gon shook his head. "You are over-optimistic, I think. Remember your purpose here: unwanted attentions may nevertheless be useful attentions. Keep an open mind and listen to the Force's guidance."

"Yes, master," the gaudily bedecked Prince muttered.

"Good." Mr. Jinnson clapped him on the shoulder and fell into place behind his employer as they made their way toward the Xolinthi stronghold Grand Salon, and the formal reception in Beju's honor.

"Lovely," the Prince muttered under his breath, stalking down the corridor in all his glittering, rustling, bejeweled and definitively peevish glory.


	6. Chapter 6

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 6.

* * *

Prince Beju of Gala tipped his chair backward upon its narrow base and considered his sabaac cards gravely. "Oh, gods help us," he drawled, flicking an unimpressive selection down upon the playing table. "What dratted ill-fortune I have this evening. It's quite boring."

Hiu Meergum, seated beside him, placed his own cards upon the felted surface with a sly grin. "Perhaps a change of loyalties will turn your luck," he suggested. A murmur and a rippling wave of nods met this proclamation as the other players at the table agreed.

The premier of a nearby planet folded, and made a deep bow as he rose. "Indeed," he concurred. "There are few alliances so surely guaranteed to bring your system wealth, Prince Beju. Do not overthink the matter – when fate deals you such a hand, you must act, and quickly, lest you lose everything."

The dealer slid the last round's winnings toward Pall Toeffer, magnate of the Allied Cybernetic Manufacturer's Guilds.

"Indeed," the rotund Yammutz leered. "Double or nothing, my Prince. Gala has much to offer the Cooperative – and too much at stake not to play."

Beju frowned over this statement. "You bore me with your riddles," he yawned, presently. "Let's have the cards. These fellows plan to send me to an early grave with their business talk."

Meergum's exchange of knowing looks with the other dignitaries around the table went apparently unnoticed by the young aristocrat.

The next round did not play out in the Prince's favor, either.

"Damn it all," he muttered. "Meergum, I grow weary of this game. I'm going to find something more stimulating."

Ten minutes later, he was seen gravitating toward the refreshment table.

"Well?" Mr. Jinnson inquired, appearing discreetly at his employer's elbow, as any proper valet should. "Just how many credits have you managed to lose tonight?"

"None of your business, Jinnson." The Prince sampled a ripe tatsu-berry and tossed the half-eaten fruit into a chromium-lined receptacle. "I think Gala may be in debt or otherwise compromised by its current ruler," he added, in a low tone.

His servant nodded. "I'll look into it. In the meanwhile, why don't you further ingratiate yourself with the Xolinthi?"

Beju deftly plucked a brimful glass of some delicately tinted liquid from a passing server's tray. He swirled the contents idly and took a sip, beaming amicably at a gaggle of other guests as they passed by in the milling crowd. After one more sip, he handed the concoction to Jinnson. "Take this swill away," he commanded, drifting further into the crowd with a singularly indolent swagger.

Mr Jinnson's mouth twisted slightly in amusement as he watched the Prince make his way across the packed room.

"Intolerable. Simply beastly," an electronically simulated voice muttered behind him. The tall man turned to see the Galan protocol unit dithering over the arrangement of comestibles upon the sumptuously appointed table.

"Ah… you find fault with the Xolinthi etiquette?" Jinnson politely inquired.

The droid sniffed heartily. "Look at this mess! Completely incorrect. Only barbarians would place savory and sweet in such close proximity. No finger bowls, no hand-napkins, improper serving utensils, and plates at the _most_ awkward position. It might as well be a cannibal feast. Such vile disregard for the meaning of civilization. I've seen _Nemoidian _table-settings which gave less offense to my optic receptors!"

"Surely not," Qui-Gon murmured, raising his brows.

The droid jerked edgily. "I do not exaggerate. And the Nemoidians are positively revolting – so _nouveau riche._ As I am sure you observed, Mr. Jinnson, having just endured their company last standard."

The Jedi master smothered his flare of alarm. "And how do you know of that?" he asked, lightly. "The Prince's itinerary was confidential."

His robotic companion gave the mechanical equivalent of a nudge and a wink. "You know how it is, Mr. Jinnson – those of us in the business always know. It hasn't leaked beyond our select company, naturally. _We_ at least have some sense of decorum – or we wouldn't be in our profession, now would we?"

"Indeed not." Qui-Gon filed away for future reference the fact that the Galactic upper serving caste might have its own private intelligence network, and turned his attention to the specifics of this reported meeting with the Trade Federation. "My lord Prince Beju was not pleased with the outcome of that trip," he offered conspiratorially.

The droid leaned in closer. "Well, neither were the Nemoidians, as rumor has it. Positively affronted by the Prince's slurs against their race. There were rumors of Trade embargoes circulating – republic law notwithstanding. But you can't trust the word of cook-staff, naturally, so I shouldn't give too much credence to such tales. But still – your employer must have been lamentably ill-mannered to have said any such thing directly. And he insulted their principal export, too – and you know how proud they are of that despicable filth."

Mr Jinnson sighed. "Ah, yes, indeed. And His Highness can be loquacious to a fault. It was unfortunate that our hosts were so offended by his remarks."

The droid tapped the side of its truncated metallic nose and tottered away, leaving the Jedi master to ruminate on the possible meanings of the real Beju's comments to the Trade Federation envoys during the previous month.

* * *

The party dragged to its inevitable end in the small hours of the morning.

"Are you sober?" Mr Jinnson demanded, following his Prince's slightly wobbling progress down the corridor toward their guest suite.

"Painfully so," Beju responded, his gait still uncertain. He stopped and leaned against a wall, earning himself an admonitory stare from his servant.

"Really?" The Force was awash with a medley of emotions and half-formed thoughts – not blurred and confused, but certainly not the tranquil clarity which ought to accompany a Jedi's presence.

The young aristocrat cast an exasperated glance upward at the tall man. "It's these blasted _shoes,"_ he grimaced, leaning down to pull off the offending items one at a time. His shoulders sagged in relief. "For the love of…"

Jinnson smiled. "And here I thought you had overdone it again."

Obi-Wan tossed the fashionably narrow and absurdly shaped footwear at him, flexing his cramped toes against the posh carpeting. "I refuse to endure those any longer. Find me something better at once."

"I suggest we return to our rooms," his valet suggested. "Your bodyguards are awaiting your return."

"Fine." The Padawan led the way down the hall, walking straight and steadily now that he was unencumbered by the Prince's shoes. "So long as that abysmal droid isn't with them."

"Our friendly etiquette expert is a vital part of our staff," Qui-Gon reminded him.

"Yes, well, I have half a mind to fire him. He tried to maneuver me into _dancing,_ with the Dowager of Praxis Minorof all people, and he criticized my attire."

"I thought you were of like mind on that subject?"

"Perhaps – but that is besides the point. I won't countenance snide remarks from a person who is clad – for all intents and purposes – in full body-armor for a courtly soiree. This," he gestured at his own ornate costume, "may be effete; but _that _ is nothing short of puerile."

Jinnson smiled blandly. "Ah. I would never question your authoritative judgment in _that_ regard."

Beju favored him with an acid look and stalked onward. "Are you aware," he asked, non sequitur, "that Gala is in violation of three separate Galactic Free Trade Regulations?"

Qui-Gon slowed. "Who told you that?"

"The Zerxu law consultant. He advised me to bribe the next delegation of Republic inspectors, as he knows them all personally."

"Interesting. Gala has need of protection from punitive sanctions," the tall man mused. "Let me ask you, in turn, whether you were aware Beju recently had a secret liaison with Trade Federation representatives, during which he all but formally severed ties by insulting both their species and their most famous planetary export, hallucinogenic micosporals?"

Beju slowed. "I did?"

"You did."

The young man shrugged and resumed his brisk pace. "I must have been too drunk to remember it," he quipped. "But….why alienate a useful ally when one has most need of its services? The Trade Federation could protect Gala from Republic interference – everyone knows they are a power and a law unto themselves, or nearly so."

"Your decision to contract with the Xolinthi might be more of a reactionary gesture than anything else," the Jedi master observed.

The young Jedi wriggled free of his voluminous damask coat and tossed it idly at his valet. "But then why all the fuss on my behalf? I was told repeatedly tonight that Beju is playing for high stakes. And who is watching him- those probe droids at the spaceport… they had to come from somewhere."

"Patience," Qui-Gon advised, folding the heavy garment over one arm and deftly catching the embroidered waistcoat which followed. "Answers will come in time – and perhaps in more abundance than we would like."

"Yes… this meeting tomorrow morning should be most illumining," Obi-Wan grunted, clawing free of Beju's elaborate lace cravat and flinging it aside just as they rounded the last corner.

Jinnson cleared his throat. "Your Highness may not wish to-"

"Don't bore me with your prudery, Jinnson," the Prince snapped. He flicked the door activation panel with one hand. "I think I shall have a nice, long bath. Hot, if you please."

The Prince's valet offered him an obsequious bow as the security guard posted on duty opened the heavy panel. Beju crossed the threshold first, stripping off his shirt, ornamental sash, and then each silken stocking, leaving a trail of cast-off garments in his wake. Jinnson humbly followed, stooped over double to pick up each item. The security men kept their faces stonily impassive and said nothing.

Beju set his coronet upon a decorative bust in the foyer and sauntered toward the double doors to his bedchamber, manifestly pleased with himself. "The _bath,_ Jinnson!" he commanded, peevishly. "I feel positively _polluted_ by tonight's festivities."

His manservant raised both brows. "As you wish, my Prince, but –"

"Enough _blathering,"_ Beju retorted, swinging wide the massive portals. "Hop to it, man."

He froze in place.

"Prince Beju," a husky, slightly accented female voice purred from interior of the lavish chamber. "I've been waiting for you."

The young aristocrat's instinctive step backward into a ready-defensive Ataru opening stance brought him up against Mr. Jinnson with a small bump.

The delicately tattooed and undeniably well-endowed Tervashsu courtesan uncoiled from her theatrical reclining pose upon the Prince's bed and minced forward, sashaying prettily. Jinnson locked his employer in place with a steady hand on his shoulder.

"You are looking very well tonight, my lord," the lady throatily declared, eyeing the Prince's chosen costume of close-fitting lavender silk knee-breeches and nothing else.

Beju made a concerted effort to look anywhere but at the comely speaker.

_Focus,_ Qui-Gon projected across their Force bond.

_Master! _The Padawan's soundless yelp of protest availed him nothing; a small shove in the small of Beju's back had him stumbling forward into the Tervashsu's near proximity.

_Now,_ the Jedi master silently mandated, his invisible frown masked by a bland outward expression as he carefully closed the doors behind him, and made his way across the bedchamber to the lavish bathroom at its opposite end.

The lady wasted no time in closing the gap between herself and Beju, doubtless judging that it was best to take such a quarry off-guard. "I was expecting someone with your reputation to be a bit… older," she smiled, artfully preventing escape by twining one leg behind the Prince's right knee.

_Don't you dare,_ Qui-Gon mentally warned his protégé, sensing the Padawan's instant desire to employ a swift defensive grappling technique to throw his companion over one shoulder into the far wall.

_Help!_ The young Jedi's distress resounded in the Force, but Qui-Gon merely set about placidly filling the vast ceramplast tub with fragrant water. He allowed the scented oils to slowly fill the steam-laden air with a sweet aroma before idly peering back through the doorframe.

The Tervashsu had made great progress in the intervening two minutes, having more or less pinned Beju against the ornamented wardrobe. While not precisely enjoying himself, the Prince appeared to be transfixed, his posture limp with helpless surprise while his lovely visitor made rather free exploration of hitherto uncharted territory. The lady was _aggressive,_ Qui-Gon decided, eyes narrowing.

_Focus! _ He sharply reminded his apprentice across their bond.

The authoritative tone seemed to clear the Padawan's befuddled mind. Beju stirred and managed to push the Tervashsu away, holding her at arm's length. "No," he sniffed. "No, that won't do. Go."

The courtesan scowled, her lips shaping into an expressive pout. "Go? What do you mean? Hiu Meergum His Excellence has specially sent me to entertain His Highness-"

"Well, you aren't," the Prince of Gala spat. "It's boring. Tell Meergum not to insult me with such clichés. I… I crave something new. Something novel. "

"…Novel?" the lady repeated dubiously.

"Yes!" Beju roared. "Now get out of my sight before I expire of sheer ennui."

The Tervashsu gathered a soft gown about her shoulders and stormed through the double doors, pausing only to deliver a hearty back-handed slap to the Galan security officer who attempted to pinch her on the way out.

Beju slumped against the carven panels of the wardrobe, chest heaving, color rising high in his cheeks.

"You were a great deal of help!" he snarled at his valet.

Qui-Gon smiled. "Your bath is ready."

The Prince drew two hands over his face. "I _need_ it now," he muttered before dropping his arms and fixing the Jedi master with a piercing glare in which accusation and wounded feelings were equally blended. "That was disgusting."

"You didn't seem _entirely_ revolted by the proceedings," the tall man observed. "Do not let emotion color your perceptions. Come."

Obi-Wan blushed even more violently and swept past, into the bath-chamber, mental shields rendering his thoughts opaque.

If it's any consolation," Qui-Gon told him. "You have once again proved yourself a master of evasion. I had every confidence your intuition would carry you through the ordeal safely."

His Padawan snorted disdainfully and disappeared into the clouds of steam. A moment later the shimmering, purple-tinted breeches came sailing across the threshold and landed in a resentful heap.

Mr Jinnson merely chuckled quietly and went about his duties.

* * *

The rumples in Beju's temper were smoothed by a luxurious soak, one long enough to elicit a disapproving cough from Mr. Jinnson upon the Prince's eventual re-emergence wrapped in a soft and opulent robe.

"Would you have me neglect the demands of hygeine?" Beju answered the unspoken reprimand, dumping his wet towel at the valet's feet. He slid into a plush chair. "Do something about this dratted mess called my hair, would you? I declare, this long ill-kempt look better suits an indigent wastrel ….or one of those unwashed eccentric hermit types. Don't you agree, Jinnson?"

The serving man slapped the Prince's gilt-backed brush against the palm of his hand meaningfully. "His Highness may wish to note that this tool can be put to more than one use."

Beju kicked his feet onto an upholstered stool. "Which is why I am sitting down." He snapped his fingers. "Get to it, then."

Qui-Gon dutifully set about ordering the dark mass of knots and tangles. "You need to buy time tomorrow – do not commit to anything at the meeting. Any excuse for delay will suffice."

Obi-Wan frowned slightly. "I understand. Ow! You needn't _pull_ so hard… will you attend the meeting as well?"

Jinnson hesitated. "No," he decided. "Take the protocol droid in my place. While Merggum and the top officials are occupied, I shall see what information can be gleaned from the lower levels. Sometimes the subservient ranks are the most observant, and I am in a position to gain the confidence of Merggum's household staff."

"If such are to be trusted," Beju reminded him.

"Fear not – I will remember my own advice. But I feel there is more astir here than a mere transfer of trade privileges."

"I do too… but does Beju know that, or not, I wonder?"

Jinnson laid the brush aside. "That is another unknown factor, one we must be mindful of. Play your part cautiously tomorrow, young one."

The Padawan nodded, lapsing into a pensive silence.

"Now, now," Jinnson chided. "Brooding is outside Beju's purview, and strictly forbidden to his alter ego."

The Prince rolled his eyes. _Yes, master,_ he demurred, through the Force.

Aloud, he merely yawned. "You bore me, Jinnson."


	7. Chapter 7

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 7

* * *

"To think!" the Galan protocol unit grumbled, joints creaking as it settled into place behind Prince Beju. "Holding a meeting without issuing a proper agenda prior to its convocation. So unprofessional."

"Do you mind?... It's far too early for your wearisome complaints. I haven't even had a decent cup of caff."

"Well!" the robot huffed. "That is hardly my provenance. With all due respect, your Royal Highness should have ordered one of the –"

"You can fetch it for me," Beju decided, stepping through the lift doors into Merggum's upper level private viewing balcony, a transparisteel-walled room providing a spectacular panoramic of the surrounding asteroid field.

"I am not a _scullery_ maid!" the affronted droid muttered.

Beju rounded on the cybernetic translator, brows beetling together furiously. "Might I remind you that you could be demoted to the scullery at my pleasure… or perhaps to the scrap pile? I am ill accustomed to such base revolt."

The silver protocol expert threw up its hands in disgust and wheeled about to find an underling to whom it might delegate the unsavory task. Hiu Merggum emerged from the interior office, and greeted the Prince with a short bow.

"Very wise, to keep one's staff in order," he murmured. "You have perhaps learned your lesson with the Galan reactionary party, my lord?"

Beju's brows lifted a trifle. "You are well-informed."

The Weequay ushered him into the meeting room beyond, his cold smile revealing a row of sharp teeth. "I have my means. There are some here who understand the … pressures you face, Prince Beju. Some who might be willing to help – in exchange for appropriate loyalty. An alliance of mutual benefit, you might say. There is more than _wealth_ to be had here, as you might have guessed."

"Indeed?" The Prince seated himself and propped a foot upon the Prime's polished Board table. "He gazed at his jeweled hands, studying the fingernails with a yawn. "I should like to hear more about that."

Merggum chuckled darkly. "An accomplished sabaac player, " he sneered. "Though from all I have seen and heard, accomplished better at losing great sums than executing a neat strategy."

Beju looked up at him sharply.

"We are aware of your personal financial issues as well," the Xolinthi director purred, settling himself conspiratorially beside the Galan aristocrat. "I requested this meeting with you personally, my Prince, rather than your Parliament. You are, after all, in the best position to make a decision for the… common.. good of your planet. With rank come certain rights, do you not agree?"

The Prince considered him thoughtfully for a long moment. The Prime leaned in, returning the studious gaze in equal measure.

"You bore me," Beju declared at last. He leaned back in his chair and stifled another yawn. "And where is that star-forsaken server droid with my caff? I can't abide slothful domestics… waiting is so tiresome."

On cue, a burnished server appeared bearing a tray replete with steaming ceramplast pot, delicate cups, saucers, and other accoutrements. The robotic waitress demurely bowed and withdrew, mumbling an apology to the protocol unit as it reentered on her heels, followed by the remainder of the Xolinthi Board. Dignitaries and planetary heads filed in and took up positions around the wide table. Beju watched them idly, stirring a generous amount of blue cream into his caff and taking a long and critical sip of the dark brew before deigning to acknowledge the newcomers. His droid stood at polite attention in one corner, as did several other protocol and translator units of diverse makes and colors.

Pressure pistons sealed the doors with a sibilant finality.

"Ah," Hiu Merggum beamed at the gathered executives and shareholders of the Xolinthi Mercantile Cooperative. "Let us get down to business."

* * *

The Xolinthi headquarters were vast, occupying the greater part of the hollowed-out asteroid, a floating palace as complex as any womprat warren. But the cooking and cleaning went on, predictably enough, in the lowest tiers of the structure. Qui-Gon wound his way through the labyrinth at an easy pace, following the unerring prompting of his instinct, and soon enough discovered the vast kitchens.

His entrance was barred by an intimidating human matron in her mid to late fifties, two ample arms splayed upon even wider hips, pert elfish features tipped upward to regard the newcomer with a distinct air of challenge.

"And may I _help_ you, sir?" this personage demanded, sizing him up in a single shrewd glance. "Galan I see by your livery. The Prince's personal gentleman, you would be then. What's the name?"

"Jinnson," the tall man replied easily, offering her a gallant bow.

The cook – for her air of masterly authority marked her an absolute monarch, while the grease stains adorning her smock proclaimed her domain to be culinary in nature – snorted, and folded her arms across her impressive bosom. "My pleasure, I'm sure," she growled. "I go by Chylld hereabouts. What brings you knocking on my door, then?"

"Ah." Mr. Jinnson nodded apologetically. "The Prince is fastidious by temperament, and if you will forgive my saying so, given to undue anxiety pertaining to his health. He wished me to ascertain that the cook staff was apprised of his various food allergies."

Chylld did not move. "Allergies? Have a med-droid up to look at His Highness, I say. That's nothing to inconvenience a body nowadays."

The valet bowed. "As I have told him many a time… sadly, his Royal Highness also harbors a neurotic and irrational distaste for all medical droids and practitioners of the healing arts. I can assure you, it is most trying at times."

"Well, well, well," the rotund mistress of the kitchens chuckled. "I knew he were a spoiled brat the moment I laid eyes on him, Mr Jinnson." She stepped aside, waving him into the inner sanctum. "Why don't you sit and have a cuppa with me, then? We'll sort out this matter of the Prince's needs nicely, I'm sure."

"Thank you," Mr Jinnson replied, accepting the invitation with another gracious bow.

The robotic staff hummed and chopped and buzzed and flitted back and forth through the gleaming kitchens as they passed. A few aproned Weequay servants laboring over a fusion stove risked an upward glance at the newcomer, but made no remark. Chylld barked a curt order at a spindle-jointed servitor making entries in to a shipping manifest, and led her guest to a broad countertop in a relatively quiet corner.

"Now then." She leaned her considerable weight upon both elbows. "I daresay your employer thinks he can get away with murder, on account of those good looks of his."

"An unfortunate presumption, but yes."

Chylld took the tea-tray from her droid assistant and poured for two. "He's not the only one, I'd wager." She winked slyly.

Jinnson's brows rose delicately. "I would not have ventured to call Director Merggum a handsome fellow."

"Oh, I weren't referring to His Excellency, Mr. Jinnson." The cook took a coy sip of her tea, peering at him appreciatively over the rim of her cup.

The valet set his cup down and leaned in, offering her a charming smile.

* * *

Prince Beju of Gala slammed his empty cup down upon the Board table and scowled in exasperation.

"Your Highness has an objection to the terms we suggest?" Hiu Merggum spread both hands, catching the eyes of his cohort.

The Prince waved a hand at them. "Objections? Yes – you shall surely bore me to death with your projected profit margins and liability waivers and your infernal technical drivel. Can't you give me an _interesting_ reason to join your little Cooperative?"

Pall Toeffer bolted upright in his seat. "Are you suggesting that an alliance with the Cybernetic Manufacturing Guild is somehow beneath your notice?" the Yammutz demanded, in a tone of deep affront.

The planetary governor on Toeffer's left spluttered his indignation. "Surely, Prince Beju, you do not imply-"

"How dare you!" The aging Dowager of Praxis Minor rapped her cane against the tables' edge. "Such impertinence!"

Beju's protocol unit tottered forward in agitation. "His Highness does not intend any disrespect; rather, he –"

"That's quite right," Beju interrupted his own droid. "It's not disrespect….. it's the truth."

"Oh dear!" the poor Galan interpreter jerked its hands in distress. "Please disregard the Prince's hasty –"

"Silence, you chrome-pated knave!" the Prince roared, sending the caff tray's contents clattering to the floor with an angry sweep of his arm. "I shall speak for myself, you presumptuous buffoon."

The droid moaned and set about righting the unseemly mess.

"Now, now, Your Highness," Merggum soothed his guest, reasonably. "There is no need for hard feelings. We all know that you have brought your , ah, _good reasons_ with you. Unless you have already forgotten the enemies you've made on your own homeworld."

Beju coked his head to one side, lounging gracefully in his chair. "I'm not the one whose entire sector is a disgraceful wreck. Piracy, hijackings, interrupted shipping routes… really, Merggum, why would I want to do business with such a manifest incompetent?"

The Xolinth Prime leaned back, expression hardening. "Your informants are better than I supposed," he murmured. "I congratulate you."

Beju narrowed his eyes.

"However, " the enormous Weequay continued, pointed teeth peeking though his lips as he smiled coldly, "Not as good as they might be. I assure you, there is no disruption of trade in my sector… except for that which I have authorized myself."

The Galan Prince uncrossed his legs and sat straighter. "What?"

Merggum chuckled delightedly. "Ah, you see, Your Highness, the Xolinthi know how to _control_ their own insurgents – which is more than I can say for you."

"You insult me," Beju growled, leaping to his feet. "I shall not countenance such filthy slander, especially from an upstart commoner such as yourself, Merggum."

Half the company was on its feet in the next instant. The Prime waved them back into their seats. "No, no, my friends – our Princeling does not mean what he says… isn't that correct? He is intrigued. There is _no_ trade dispute in Xolinthi space, my friend. And an alliance with us would , of course, mean that there would be no dispute on Gala either. We are _very_ competent at suppressing the voices of sedition and conspiracy."

The heir to Gala's throne sank slowly into his seat again.

"Well?" Meggum pressed. "Choose wisely."

The Prince maintained a stubborn silence for several minutes. At last, he met his host's expectant gaze. "I require proof of your claims," he declared. "I would see it with my own eyes before I make any decision."

"Ah," the Weequay leered. "You are already growing wiser. I shall personally show you how a _strong_ leader responds to rebellion. Let us adjourn until tomorrow."

* * *

"And believe you me, sir, those of us in the business heard about _that. _ Word's gotten about, you know – no self respecting domestic in his or her or its own right mind would take a position on Gala, not on your life. What with the gambling away the planet's treasury and the girls – and goodness me, the Khaldorrian governer's _daughter…_ oh I can see by your face you don't wish me to speak of it and I shan't, I shan't ever except between the two of us, but really! That poor girl. And of course all this trouble with the illegal animal breeds for the races and hunting and such – Trade Regulations flouted hither and yon, mercy what a load of trouble that young Prince of yours is, a rapscallion born and bred and you must have the patience of sixteen Tarthusian saints to put up with him, I must say. More tea?"

"Your pardon… speak of the devil." Mr. Jinnson politely excused himself from Chylld's engaging and garrulous company to answer his private comlnk. "Yes, my lord?"

Obi-Wan's voice came through the link clearly. "Jinnson," he drawled. "The meeting has been adjourned until tomorrow. I'm just accompanying Merggum on some tiresome private business… I require your presence immediately upon my return."

The Prince's bored intonation did not mask the underlying tension in the Force; Qui-Gon recognized the message for what it was. His Padawan had possibly discovered evidence of Xolinthi wrongdoing, the goal of this mission. His mouth thinned. "Very good, my lord," he responded. "I shall have your bath ready."

"And my favorite dinner, if you please," Beju commanded petulantly.

The tall man nodded. He would be available for counsel and direction, as requested.

Chylld interrupted his thoughts. "Favorite dinner, then?" she inquired. "What's that? Some delicacy we don't have here, I'll lay my bet."

Qui-Gon shrugged nonchalantly. "Unless your larders include Kersuu beetles and hot _samji_ sauce."

The woman clapped her hands together with enthusiasm. "I can help you there," she confided in her newfound friend. "Merggum has a passion for the nasties himself. I'll whip up a platter for the Prince… suppose you'd like to stay and lend a hand, hm? I've plenty more gossip to share, Mr. Jinnson, if you've a mind to hear it."

* * *

Merggum led the solemn procession, followed by Beju, the Galan protocol droid, and the Prime's detachment of personal guards. The Xolinthi paused before a code-locked door and leaned in close to the Galan Prince.

"I was wondering, my lord… did you not find my gift to you last night appetizing?"

Beju lip curled in disgust. "If I wanted to languish in the doldrums, Merggum, I would have stayed on Gala."

The Weequay tsked under his breath. "A lesser man might be insulted… Havya is most entertaining – I fear you did not give her opportunity to fully display her talents."

Beju cocked an eyebrow. "Entertaining? Your idea of fun and mine must be quite different… perhaps it is to be attributed to the difference in our ages."

This jest elicited a thrum of amusement from the director. "Ah, now, with age comes better taste. Havya tells me you wish for something… novel, was it? As in, _untried?_ I may be able to accommodate you – you will find that we have many resources at our disposal. Ah. Here we are- let me demonstrate to you my policy regarding sedition."

The guards unlocked the heavy portals, and the company proceeded into a detention level contained deep within the heart of the stronghold.

"Here," the Xolinth Prime directed. "I will show you what becomes of rebels in the Cooperative's network. This fellow Niik-Al had the audacity to violate my specific instructions regarding tariffs and the detainment of non-authorized vessels. He went so far as to organize a resistance movement, an act of sheerest anarchy, which we met with appropriate force. He was once a prosperous merchant trader in this sector– but now, alas…"

They reached a cell at the corridor's end. Beju peered through the shimmering haze of an energy barrier at the battered form of a humanoid man hunched in one corner.

Merggum signaled his escort to lower the barrier and seize the prisoner. Niik-Al made no protest as he was dragged unceremoniously forward and forced to kneel before the Prime and his guest.

"Now, " the Weequay growled. "You slime, this is Prince Beju of Gala, newest adjutant to our Cooperative. He has seen much trouble with traitorous scum of your kind on his own planet. I have brought him here to judge your fate."

The prisoner looked up at Beju with the faintest glimmer of hope written across his drawn features. The Prince looked down upon him uncertainly, reduced to a most uncharacteristic silence.

Merggum's hand dropped upon the Prince's shoulder. "I think you and I have much in common. You are famous for your enjoyment of blood sport," he whispered. "Do not deny yourself the pleasure where a worthless piece of excrement is involved."

Beju swallowed. "Don't bore me with these juridical chores," he said, at last, but the Xolinthi director shook his head knowingly.

"Prince Beju would like to see how the Xolinth deal with traitors," Merggum told the guards.

"Mercy, my lord!" the unfortunate prisoner wailed. "If you have _any_ compassion, I beg you!"

Color drained from the young aristocrat's face. A moment passed. "I don't-"

A hand clamped hard about Beju's upper arm. Merggum's hot breath wafted down his neck as a threesome of the armed escort chained their victim to a wall and laid into the terrified merchant with an electrowhip. Vibrant cries of pain echoed in the narrow corridor, twisting away down its length into howling ghosts of sound.

The young Galan watched the proceedings stonily, face set in hard lines.

When Niik-Al collapsed, his back fretted with a bloody and inflamed tracery of abuse, the guards retreated into the corridor and reactivated the cell barrier.

"Now," the Xolinth Prime leered in his guest's ear. "Do not tell me you found that boring, Prince Beju."


	8. Chapter 8

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 8

* * *

Mr. Jinnson's return to the Xolinthi guest quarters was unheralded by any imperious commands or declaration of intolerable boredom on the part of his employer. The royal valet's keen gaze swept expectantly across the opulent sitting room's expanse, but there was no sign of the moody heir to Gala's throne. One of the security guardsmen posted by the far window caught the tall man's inquiring eye and gave a curt nod in the direction of the master bedchamber.

"Your Highness requested my presence," Jinnson murmured, slipping quietly between the two massive panels.

Prince Beju knelt on the carpeted floor in a very believable imitation of Jedi meditation posture, hands resting lightly upon his knees, eyes closed, features relaxed. He started into present awareness upon Jinnson's arrival.

Qui-Gon locked the doors behind him with a wave of one hand, and knelt beside his apprentice. "You are disturbed."

The Prince drew in a deep centering breath. "I have dishonored myself and your teachings," he declared, flatly. "I am truly sorry, master."

The Jedi master's brows rose. "Why don't you let me be the judge of your actions before you plunge headfirst into self-condemnation," he advised. "Tell me what has happened first."

"Yes, master." Obi-Wan dropped his gaze. "Merggum had a man brutally whipped – and I did nothing. I merely watched. I – I didn't know what else to do. And I could not feel the Force's guidance."

The tall man tilted his head thoughtfully. "That is dangerous.. but it does not mean you are a disgrace. It is difficult to keep one's focus in the face of a distraction.. and I take it you were badly distracted."

The Padawan nodded miserably.

"A Jedi draws his strength and clarity of mind from his connection with the Force. One of the perennial dangers of undercover work is the possibility of losing that center in some alias, or even in the circumstances surrounding that alias."

"Yes," the young Jedi replied, subdued. "I failed to act as a Jedi."

"You acted as Beju would have, rather than as a Jedi would," Qui-Gon succinctly concluded. "But that is your duty at the moment."

"He begged me for mercy, master," Obi-Wan protested, stricken. His hands clenched, betraying a measure of inner turmoil not banished by meditation.

"Ah." Qui-Gon exhaled slowly, allowing himself a small bitter-sweet smile. "The moral dilemma inherent in such assignments as this. You feel you have somehow betrayed your inner truth by taking on Beju's identity."

A deep furrow appeared between the Padawan's brows. "Have I not?" he replied, with an undercurrent of revulsion. "A charade is one thing… but this was stark reality. A man suffered and I did nothing."

"Focus determines reality," Qui-Gon reminded him, laying one hand atop his student's until the young man's fingers relaxed beneath the gentle pressure. "Your truth is revealed in this moment of pity; what transpired in Merggum's presence pertains to Beju, not to yourself."

But the answer did not satisfy. "An innocent suffered, master, and I could have stopped it. There were only six guards, and a narrow passageway. I could have –"

The Jedi master held up a restraining hand. "What you could have done was accomplish the complete failure of this mission, and very likely the occasion of your own capture and imprisonment. We are in enemy territory here, do not forget. Such rash and impulsive action would have little beneficial effect in the end. But you already know this, as evidenced by your wise decision to abstain from interference."

His apprentice's mouth twisted. "How can wisdom still lead to suffering?"

The Jedi master did not make immediate reply. "Perhaps," he began – only to be interrupted by a strident pounding upon the double doors.

Both Jedi sprang to their feet.

"Enter."

The Galan protocol droid bumbled in, pushing a hover-trolley laden with a heavy serving tray. "The cook sends her gracious compliments," it droned, "and sincere wishes that his Royal Highness Prince Beju will relish this delicacy prepared at his special request."

Obi-Wan blinked, missing a beat.

"Your favorite dinner, my lord," Jinnson smoothly explained. "I took the liberty of giving special instructions to the kitchen staff."

Beju recovered quickly. "Well, set it down, then. And be gone – your very presence kills my appetite." He dismissed the droid with a languid wave of his hand.

"Really!" the mechanical servant huffed, withdrawing in a cybernetic tiff.

"I _am_ famished," The young Jedi gingerly lifted the largest platter's gleaming lid. His expression underwent a comical transformation. "Master!"

"_Jinnson,"_ the tall man coughed. "You did study the biographical materials thoroughly, did you not?"

"I did!" The Prince cast an outraged look at his mentor. "And there was absolutely _no_ mention of Beju's food preferences."

"Very good," the tall man smiled. "I was required to make an educated guess."

Obi-Wan set the cover aside and peered critically at the small dish of chunky green condiment. "You might have asked for _spicy djo, _or at least something with fewer _legs,"_ he griped. "And samji sauce would burn my sinuses out."

"Nonsense," Qui-Gon tranquilly replied, dipping one of the roasted beetles into the shallow bowl and liberally coating its blackened length in green samji. "It would put some hair on your chest. And Force knows you could use some." He popped the insect into his mouth with an appreciative rumble. "Who knows? It might even clear your mind."

The Padawan backed away from the laden dinner tray and perched sullenly on the edge of Beju's bed. "That would be welcome," he muttered.

"You did meditate."

"Yes, but… is there not some way to _exercise_ here? I usually-"

"Make a nuisance of yourself in the dojo whenever you need to clear your mind. I have received the innumerable complaints," Qui-Gon teased him. He considered his companion's request thoughtfully, contentedly munching another Kersuu beetle. "I suppose the Prince's security detail might oblige you in that regard." He held up a warning finger. "But no exhibition of special _talents."_

The Prince brightened visibly. "Yes, master."

"However - before you engage in your, ah, moving meditation, I want you to report on your meeting with the Cooperative's Board. Tell me every detail while I finish this delightful meal."

* * *

"You!" Prince Beju accosted his ill-fated security detail. "Yes, you – I grow bored. I require you to entertain me."

The men's faces blanched in apprehension.

Beju strolled up to the nearest officer, a hulking fellow easily head and shoulders his superior in stature and nearly twice as broad. "You. What's your name?"

The Galan stood at an uneasy attention. "Magg Zurl, Your Royal Highness."

"Zurl," the Prince ordered. "Hit me."

This command was met with a stunned and immobile silence.

"I said _hit me,_ you churlish oaf!" Beju snarled. "Or I'll have you thrown out of my esteemed service on your insubordinate arse!"

Zurl cast a panicked glance in the general direction of his colleagues, but received little more than a scattering of non-committal grunts and one shrug of indifferent encouragement in reply.

"Now, you witless and recalcitrant nincompoop!" the Prince snapped. "I _declare!_ You are boring me to death! I crave excite-"

Zurl swung first, missing by a hairsbreadth as the Prince ducked beneath the blow with impressive speed and agility. A well-placed kick to the security man's midriff sent him stumbling back a few paces, upsetting a delicate console table.

"Surely you can do better, you slothful herd of trollop-spawned slobs!" Beju taunted his reluctant bodyguards.

The other five hesitantly moved forward, fear and dangerous annoyance warring in their faces.

Mr. Jinnson, watching the proceedings from the shelter of the bedchamber's threshold, shook his head and quietly shut the ponderous doors upon the scene. Though he had half a mind to call his employer off before the inevitable injuries were dealt out, he decided that thrashing the Xolinthi guest suite would resonate nicely with the Prince's reputed penchant for destructive and selfish pleasures. The royal valet settled himself upon the floor instead, and centered his awareness in the Living Force, allowing its ever-moving currents to weave the disparate threads of rumor and implication into a coherent whole, a conspiracy with a life and purpose of its own.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Something hit the closed portals with a thunderous impact; but the sharp and splintering quality of the sound proclaimed the object to be a piece of furniture rather than a body. Jinnson inhaled, sinking deeper into his meditation.

On one hand there was Gala, ruled by an irresponsible and reckless Prince, one not above incurring hefty debts and damaging his world's existing trade alliance, and apparently beset by a belligerent insurgent movement on his home front.

A profane exclamation carried through the locked doors – but the voice was too deep and grating to be Obi-Wan's, so there was no cause for concern or reprimand. Qui-Gon re-centered himself.

On the other hand, there was Hiu Merggum, self- made tyrant in this sector, one who controlled all commerce in the region with an iron fist and punished infractions severely, and who had some indiscernible motive for courting Gala's favor.

A body hit the doors this time, rattling them badly and disturbing the Jedi master's meditation yet again. The first impact was followed by a second, and by a renewed uproar of shouting and cursing. Qui-Gon thought he could make out the distant tinkle of crystal or glass, and decided not to inquire.

And then, beyond these two main personae dramatis, there was something else… elusive. A current running deeper than either, governing both their destinies. It was this hidden story, this buried secret, which interested him most. Qui-Gon sank deeper into the Force, resting in its Living presence while the Prince and his chosen playmates disported themselves merrily in the adjacent rooms.

* * *

"Have I failed to teach you restraint?" Qui-Gon pointedly inquired. He bound his Padawans' split knuckles with a soft gauze bandage,

"How was I to know he was wearing concealed body armor?" the young Jedi muttered, wincing a bit as he poked at the bruise spreading along his cheekbone.

The tall man dabbed at the injury with an antiseptic solution. "I should call in a conventional medical droid to tend these abrasions. It would serve you right."

"What? No. I absolutely forbid it!"

"Forbid while you can, my young friend," the Jedi master darkly recommended. "I'm going to unleash BenTo upon you so soon as this mission is over." He glanced over his shoulder at the scene of unparalleled wreckage in the room beyond. "I see that you have spared no expense in the pursuit of clear-mindedness."

"I'm clear on one thing," Obi-Wan informed him. "The Galan security forces are most impressive. Almost special commando level. If they had not been holding back out of fear for their livelihood, I should be a mangled pulp by now."

"I do not find that encouraging," the older man said dryly.

"Well," came the bright response. "I feel rather safe from attempted assassination. That's something, don't you think?"

"Hm." Qui-Gon raised a brow. "A false sense of security has been your downfall before now, I might remind you."

"Ow!" the Prince hissed as his valet's ministrations brought the stinging antiseptic close to his earlobe.

"And I also see that you have managed to fiddle and fidget this piercing into acute inflammation, despite repeated admonitions to keep your hands _off."_

"It's bothersome," the Prince mumbled, gritting his teeth as Jinnson examined the irritated area.

"I should send you to bed without supper. In fact, I shall."

Beju flopped backward against the mountain of luxurious pillows provided for his comfort, rubbing absently at his sore ribs. "Fine."

Mr Jinnson grimly packed away the med kit and set about straightening the bedchamber, then hanging the Prince's somewhat rumpled attire back in its wardrobe.

"None of the security men were hurt, were they?" Obi-Wan quietly inquired. "I was careful."

The Jedi master indulged in a small smile, unobserved by his apprentice. "No," he assured the boy. "Though you do realize you will have to dismiss or otherwise castigate the one who managed to land that punch to your face."

"But it was a fair fight, and he was only obeying my order," the young man objected. "I provoked them – badly."

Qui-Gon shut the closet doors. "But Prince Beju would not share your perspective. I'm afraid you do not possess the luxury of honor here." He turned and fixed his supine apprentice with a stern eye. "Too great an attachment to noble principles could be dangerous in this context."

"I know." Obi-Wan's head rolled to one side, and he favored the opposite wall with a condemnatory frown. "But I'm growing sick of Beju." The frown deepened to a horrible scowl. "He _bores_ me."

Jinnson merely adjusted the windows' self-tinting feature to full opacity and dimmed the lights. "Do not focus on the negative," he advised. "Your intimate acquaintance with his Royal Highness must be extended a bit longer, I think."

A soft sigh flittered in the darkened chamber, accompanied by a melancholy ripple in the Force.

_Yes, master, _ the dutiful unspoken reply washed across their bond.

* * *

In the dead of night, or what amounted to night in the undifferentiated drift of the asteroid field, Prince Beju woke with a strangled shout of revulsion. His lightsaber hilt leapt from its place of concealment into his outstretched hand even as he bolted upright, every nerve strung to battle pitch, pulse roaring with thunderous outrage in his ears.

Five wild heartbeats and one gasping inhalation later, his mind caught up with his senses. The muted contours of furnishings and draperies were limned in faint silver by the gentle luminance of a night-lamp; not a sound nor the faintest motion sullied the perfect nocturnal serenity, except those made by the Prince himself as he tucked the weapon beneath a sumptuous pillow and slid from between the satin sheets with a guttural and heartfelt expression of disgust.

"Sith-spit," His Royal Highness added in an undertone, pattering across the soft carpet to his private bath, where he splashed cold water upon his sweaty face and ran two hands through his luxurious mane of mahogany tresses. An antique looking-glass of some polished metal hung above the basin; out of its depths a stranger stared, one whose lowered brows and piercing blue glare gave even his solitary observer pause. The Prince returned the mirror's fulminating gaze for a full and introspective minute before tugging rebelliously at the enormous jewel in his earlobe and storming back out the door –

-Straight into his valet.

"Easy," the tall man murmured, holding his young charge by both shoulders. "I felt a disturbance."

Obi-Wan dipped his head. "I'm sorry, master. It was nothing. A dream."

"Vision?" Qui-Gon asked, waving the lights to half-power.

His Padawan blinked in the sudden bright influx, looking up at his mentor's face sheepishly. "No… just a nightmare."

A nightmare in which the Tervashsu courtesan of the evening previous had again invaded his privacy – and all the unspoken laws of personal space – in a most aggressive manner, before inexplicably transforming into a tentacled botanical _thing, _ a predatory sarlaac bush possessed of inescapable and indefatigable tendrils, coiling and constricting green bonds that conveyed a sinister determination to effect further unspeakable violations of his person. He shuddered, at even the faint phantasmal recollection.

Qui-Gon chuckled softly. "Terrifying indeed."

The young Jedi felt heat rise in his face, aware that he had unwittingly projected some part of this humiliating and perverse image across their Force bond, and even more painfully aware that Qui-Gon's unerring intuition would have filled in any missing details. "You had to be there," he grumbled sulkily.

"Dreams pass in time," the Jedi master consoled his mortified apprentice. "Why don't you go back to sleep?" he added on his way out, infusing the words with the subtlest but most sincere of Force suggestions.

He shut the doors very gently behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 9

* * *

By morning, the heir to Gala's throne was restored to his customary high spirits and abusive turn of mind. "Jinnson!" he called out with an imperious lilt. "I desire breakfast this morning – and make it a good one. Your choice of supper menu last night was deficient in every regard. I should have you whipped for such gross incompetence."

The long-suffering royal valet made a humble bow. "I beg your clemency, my lord. Such a mistake will not happen again."

"See that it doesn't," the Prince sniffed, sprawling languorously upon the common room's settee. He knocked a delicate chaffra-wood sculpture off the table with the toe of his soft slipper and propped his foot up in its place. "And where's that dolt who had the temerity to _strike_ my royal personage last night? I should have him whipped as well."

Magg Zurl stepped forward, white-faced, and dropped to one knee. "I too must ask your forgiveness, my Prince. Your welfare is my highest priority; I intended only to satisfy your whim in the matter."

Beju regarded him indolently, stifling a wide yawn. "Prostrate yourself and I may decide to leave your skin intact."

The unfortunate guardsman lowered himself face-first upon the carpeting.

"You, too, Jinnson," the Prince commanded. "I crave evidence of your purported contrition. Abase yourself before me and be absolved."

For the first time since their arrival, the tall man visibly balked at his lord's instructions.

Beju's mouth hardened in challenge, even while his eyes danced with a rarefied mirth. "You have some objection to groveling before your lord and _master?" _ he inquired, icily. "Perhaps it is time you were reminded of your place in the natural order of things."

Jinnson's gray eyes glinted. "I take my oath of fealty quite seriously, I assure you," he replied.

Dimples appeared in Beju's cheeks as he failed to suppress his smirk. "Well then," he declared, idly rocking his foot back and forth upon the tabletop. "Let us be quite clear who is the _master _and who is the –"

A peremptory ring of the door chimes interrupted their exchange. A moment later, the Galan protocol droid tottered into the lavish apartment, taking in the scene with its unvarying expression of aloof disdain. "Excuse the intrusion, Your Royal Highness, but Hiu Merggum his Excellency has expressly sent me to convey his apologies. He is called away on urgent business and must delay your trade contract negotiations a full standard day. He wishes your Highness to enjoy Xolinthi hospitality in his brief absence and has instructed the household staff to attend your every desire."

The Prince's brows rose. "How very tedious. I doubt there is anything _remotely_ entertaining to be found in this wretched place. "

The droid's servos whirred and creaked as it executed a curt bow. "I am merely the messenger," it grumbled.

"Yes, yes." Beju brushed it aside with a callous wave. "Jinnson, I have changed my mind. I tire of your sycophancy. Leave my presence; I can think of no worse accompaniment to the insufferable monotony imposed upon me by our so-called host."

The royal valet bowed his acquiescence and hastened to obey.

* * *

"Why, Mr. Jinnson, what a pleasure it is to see you again, to be sure."

Qui-Gon brushed his lips against the back of Chylld's broad hand and smiled placidly. "His Royal Highness has been kind enough to give me the day off," he told her. "I was hoping perhaps that our leisure-time might coincide."

Chylld fluttered a hand at him girlishly. "Day off?" she chuckled. "You mean that pampered brat o' yours is too tired from drinking and whoring to need yer services. I've heard all about the Prince, sir, let me tell you."

"As you say," the tall man demurred with a small bow. "Are you at liberty presently?"

But the cook set her hands upon hips and sighed wistfully. "Time off? I don't get that but once in a retrograde moon cycle. 'Specially not with all these guests on board for the negotiations and all… and those poor creatures in the dungeons. Merggum don't give em a second thought, but I like to send something down there, keep body and soul together, not that it'll do 'em much good in the end. But there you have it – I'm an old softy."

"Compassion is admirable, however humble its manifestation," Jinnson replied.

"Oh, Mr. Jinnson, I do declare, you are too high bred for the likes of me, but there it is. Tea? I'll sneak a cuppa with you."

The royal valet hesitated, brows raised delicately. "I would by no means compromise you in the eyes of your employer."

Chylld brushed the objection aside. "Ah, but Merggum's scheduled to be off and away. Comms are blocked here on the asteroid. Any sort of transmission outside the system has to be made from clear space – he'll be nipping off to the edge of the system to make a call or two. Business, you know."

"I see." Jinnson accepted the proferred tea cup gratefully. "How inconveneient – don't you ever wish to speak to, say, your family? Friends outside the system?"

Chylld winked broadly, peering at him over the rim of her cup. "We have our ways, " she told him throatily. "Oh ho ho. But that's just between you and me, Mr. Jinnson. You know how it is."

He dipped his head. "Naturally. I don't suppose there's any service I render you? Consider me yours to command."

The cook fanned herself with an embroidered kerchief. "Oh, Mr. Jinnson," she simpered. "You are a flirtatious one.. but I'll put you to work, right enough. Shipment's coming into the hangar. I wonder if you might oversee the idiotic droids. They drop something fragile every time - spoiled sixteen dozen thranctill eggs last standard, I was fit to be tied, almost had the lot of them deactivated but then we're awfully understaffed so that wouldn't do, now would it?"

"It would be my pleasure," the Jedi master assured her, pocketing the automatic coded pass key for the hangar level with a bland smile.

* * *

"Your turn, Prince Beju."

"Yes, I know," the befuddled young aristocrat snapped, studying the dejarik board with a surly impatience. "Consign it all to the hells. .." He drummed his fingers against the variegated playing surface, then picked up a piece and moved it to an advantageous location. "Ha! Take that."

The Galan protocol unit was unimpressed. "That move is not a legitimate one," it informed its opponent.

"By whose decree?" Beju wanted to know.

The droid sniffed. "I am programmed to excel at six million forms of strategic competitive games, and I assure you that the official rulebook forbids such –"

"Rulebook be damned," the Prince drawled. "I'm granting myself a special dispensation. Your move."

"Really!" The droid threw its hands up in exasperation. "I cannot be expected to participate in a contest with no predictable and equitable set of guidelines. The very notion is an insult to the spirit of –"

"You do like rules, don't you?" The Prince swept the playing pieces off the checkered table with a bored sweep of his hand. They scattered on the carpeted floor. "A fine quality in the serving caste, I must say." He lounged backward on the soft couch and gazed morosely at the ceiling. "This is torturous. Don't you know any _interesting_ games?"

"I am an expert in diplomatic protocol, I might remind, you. If you desired the services of a nursery droid, you should have contracted with a different agency."

Beju rolled onto his side, propping his head in one hand. "I had a nanny once," he confided in his metallic interlocutor. "She bored me, in the end, and I had her thrown out the window."

The poor droid started visibly, jerking to rigid attention. "Dear me!" it exclaimed. "Surely you exaggerate."

Beju's eyes twinkled with glee, and he leaned forward conspiratorially. "Defenestration is the _only_ way," he said. "Anything else would be blasé."

"Outrageous," the droid muttered.

The Prince's dimples made a brief appearance. "She was Toydarian… I suppose she's still alive somewhere. She simply flew away and never returned. I was really very dreadfully bored after that." He sighed and collapsed backward on his sofa, kicking a few more pillows aside as he sprawled across its whole length, casting one arm over his eyes. "It's a pity there aren't any windows here – I mean, ones that can be opened."

The droid stood and shuffled away with rather more haste than was needful.

* * *

The Xolinthi hangar bay was in a state of pandemonium. The shipping freighter had docked outside the asteroid proper via an airlocked docing clamp; from the small aperture of its inner seal, a steady string of porter droids and hover palettes issued, while dithering service bots raced and whirred among the imports. In another corner, Merggum's private shuttle was fueled and made flight-ready by a mechanical ground crew. The two droid crews exchanged vociferous insults and whistling imprecations as they fought over the limited deck space and ordered each other out of the way.

It was no trouble at all to create a small distraction by yanking the magnetized fuel line loose form the intakes beneath the ship; a toxic spout of ionized gas and pressurized liquid spattered in all directions, and claxons sounded as the emergency crew rushed into the docking bay to shut down the pump. Qui-Gon slipped from behind a pile of stacked shipping crates and up the shuttle's ramp during the humorously chaotic melee.

The hold offered few places of concealment; with a short grunt of disgust, he used the Force to pry loose a portion of the inner bulkhead insulation and wedged himself into the claustrophobic space between outer hull and the composite paneling. It was not a particularly comfortable hiding space – he was obliged to hunch his shoulders and cram his broad frame into the narrow space between hold and cockpit- and he reflected wryly that this should by all rights be _Obi-Wan's_ job.

He pulled the heavy piece of molded plastoid back into place with a disgruntled twist of the mouth and resigned himself to a long and irksome wait.

* * *

As the interminable day dragged its weary way onward toward evening, Price Beju of Gala had occasion to reflect that the task of feigning ennui and unrest grew markedly easier as time progressed. After a few hours' practice it seemed natural to him; by late afternoon he no longer felt he was pretending to be mired in the doldrums; and early in the long watches of night he began to think himself the victim of a profound auto-delusion: had he not known better, he could easily have believed himself genuinely bored out of his wits.

He had just completed his thirty-fifth circuit if the lavish guest suite, pacing like a caged rancor while mentally reciting the Tranquility-of-Motionless-Contemplation mantra an equivalent number of times, when the door chimed. Abandoning his repetitive vigil, he flung wide the doors and accosted the four Xolinthi henchmen darkening his doorstep.

"I am a busy man," he upbraided the cluster of Weequay mercenaries. "This had better be a matter of supreme urgency."

The foremost pair of guards parted to reveal a slender prisoner held fast between the remaining two. This trembling person – a human girl no older than the Prince himself – was thrust unceremoniously across the threshold, and sent stumbling nearly into Beju. The Prince caught her before she fell flat on her face, and glanced up in blank incomprehension at the leering Xolinthi.

"Hiu Merggum His Excellence sends Beju of Gala this gift for his enjoyment," the most senior explained in a formal monotone. "She is completely untouched, as His Royal Majesty requested. His Excellency will vouch for this personally, and desires that the Prince will have full pleasure of the occasion."

Beju's precautionary grip about the girl's elbow loosened in surprise, and she slid to her knees in a miserable heap, pulling her insufficient shift close about her body.

"I- ah," the Prince said, gaze shifting from the Weequay guardsmen to the weeping girl and back again, while the expectant pause expanded into an awkward interval. "…Excellent," he choked out at last. "Now stop sullying the perfection of this moment with the sight of your ugly muzzles. Is there no privacy to be had in this despicable place?" he slammed the doors full in their collective face and slewed round to address his own security detail. "And you – stop gawking. Get back to work."

"Yes, Your Royal Highness," the men mumbled, training their focus on the opposite walls and ceiling.

Beju touched the sobbing girl's shoulder, but she only gasped in terror and scuttled away from him, scrambling to her feet and bumping into a wall in her panic.

"Wait –!" The Prince took a step forward, sending his timid visitor shying away. She fled across the wide suite to the nearest doorway, disappearing into the master bedchamber with a strangled cry. Her fingers fumbled with the locking mechanism too late; Beju had crossed the intervening space and jammed the doors open with his hands before she could activate the controls. He thrust himself through the narrow opening in one fluid motion.

The wide-eyed girl backpedaled until she hit the edge of the bed and fell back upon it, thin robe sliding apart in front. "Oh please, please!" she begged. "Be gentle! Please!"

Beju averted his gaze. "I'm not going to … touch you," he assured her.

But this pledge seemed only to fuel her desperation. "No – oh no! Please, no! My father will be executed if I don't please you ….I – I'll do whatever you wish, oh have mercy!." She clutched spasmodically at the hem of her garment, breath coming in heaving swells.

The revelation of such heartless blackmail carved a deep furrow between the Prince's brows, causing the poor girl to cringe yet further.

"Your father?" Beju repeated, heart sinking.

"Niik-Al," the girl wailed, wrapping both arms around her slight frame and rocking back and forth. "Merggum has him prisoner – for crimes against the Collective edicts. Without him, my entire family will be ruined. Oh please," she implored him again, "Don't send me away. You can't."

"I'm not going to hurt you. I promise," the young Galan repeated, bringing the persuasive power of the Force to bear on his distraught guest's mind. "Relax."

The girl's tense posture slackened, and she stared up at him with glazed, red-rimmed eyes, face framed in an unkempt tangle of auburn curls, fresh tears lazily rolling down her smooth cheeks. Obi-Wan frowned, noting that his gentle mind influence had produced a rather more dramatic impact than intended.

"Oh please, oh please," the girl whispered in a monotonous chant, her deep amber eyes still unfocused.

The Padawan gave a wry shrug and made the gesture of compulsion with one hand. "Sleep."

Niik-Al's daughter slumped backward upon his bed, limbs sprawling and thin gown twisted awkwardly about her torso. Obi-Wan drew the ersuu-down comforter over her, deciding that this was the decent and honorable thing to do, and stood contemplating his present predicament for a long stretch of minutes.

"Blast it, Jinnson," he grumbled. The royal valet had seen fit to disappear at a most inconvenient time, one when his presumably superior experience with things feminine was sorely needed. What was he supposed to _do_ with the sacrificial offering sent by the Xolinth Prime? Certainly not what Merggum had in mind – and yet both the Weequay and Beju's own staff would be expecting him to behave in a most reprehensible manner. He could not explicitly refuse the offer, either. A declaration of boredom with the girl's charms would send her and her sire to their deaths. He would have to delay and prevaricate as long as possible, that was a certainty. Surely Qui-Gon would know how to handle this unexpected complication.

The Prince stuck his head through the doors and demanded food of the nearest underling to hand. , who happened to be Magg Zurl. "Supper for two, if you please," he ordered. "Hop to it."

After all, Jedi training taught one to take best advantage of any given situation, no matter how outré….. and he _was_ hungry.


	10. Chapter 10

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 10

* * *

The Xolinthi vessel lumbered its way past the sluggish ring of asteroids and into clear space at the edge of the system, the drives' vibrant hum diminishing to a barely audible rumble.

A trickle of perspiration crawled slowly down Qui-Gon's spine, joining the damp patch along his belt-line. He carefully contracted and relaxed each muscle in turn, keeping the persistent threat of cramp at bay, and drew in another calming breath in the close, stuffy confines of his chosen hiding place. He could just make out Merggum's rasping voice through the bulkheads, grumbling about the comm connection and the speed of transmission.

Eventually a familiar stuttering heralded the completion of a hologrammatic connection. The Jedi master could not see the Prime's interlocutor, but he could distinctly feel Mergumm's increased tension. He strained his senses to make out the conversation, using the Force to narrow his focus upon the words.

The figure in the hologram made some initial inquiry – a broken garble of static and blurred sentences that Qui-Gon could not untangle.

"A day or so… I think Gala may sign soon. The Prince is proving more obstreperous than I anticipated. But we have been working on persuading him, and I think he may see the light of reason soon."

The answer again came in an indistinguishable blur, one that seemed to end in the phrase "Home Rule party."

Mergumm's voice was rich with contempt. "I have demonstrated to Prince Beju the value of strict discipline. I do not think we will encounter difficulty suppressing his little insurgency once he grants us enforcement rights on the world. And the Nemoidians will withdraw their support at the first sign of trouble. They are infamous cowards, and their pathetic security forces are no match for our own resources. Droids cannot compare with trained sentients."

"See that it happens…," the mysterious voice commanded, "…. Before the Chancellior nominations are confirmed. We need…. electoral… consolidate control in the…. Your responsibility."

"I understand," the Xolinth Prime murmured, the subservient note in his voice unmistakable, a cold fear edging the Force with ice. "It will be done as you have instructed."

Another incomprehensible exchange ensued before the transmission ended. A creak as Merggum settled his ponderous weight back in his seat, and then silence. Qui-Gon breathed as slowly as possible, contemplating the possible meaning of this communiqué as the drives roared back to life beneath his feet. Merggum's apparent subordination to another, as of yet unknown party, was problematic. It suggested that the corruption in this sector was merely a lesser part of some wide conspiracy, one connected ultimately with the manipulation of political power at the Republic's heart. And the mention of trained sentients able to easily rout Nemoidian security droid battalions was worrisome. Republic law did not permit the amassing of independent military forces outside planetary jurisdiction and regulation. A free-ranging mercenary army was a threat to the general peace, and promised nothing good for the future. Already the Nemoidians' recent victory in procuring permission to guard their vast Core ships with automated soldiers had raised eyebrows in the Galactic senate and even the Temple itself. As legislative inefficiency rendered the rule of right more and more a distant ideal, the rule of might edged in to take its place.

And Merggum was only one piece in that greater puzzle, one star in a constellation that might extend across the ten thousand worlds. The Jedi master leaned his head back against the uncomfortable insulation panel and banished anxiety. He would meditate on it later; at the moment, he simply hoped he could endure the slow journey back to Xolinthi headquarters in the most inconvenient accommodations imaginable.

* * *

"Oh – ah, Mr. Jinnson," the bodyguard on duty stammered upon the royal valet's weary return to quarters. "You may not, ah, wish to disturb His Royal Highness at the moment, sir…" The Galan shifted about nervously. "He's been with a young lady all this evening and night, you see. Ahem."

Qui-Gon's eyebrows crept upward in astonishment. "Indeed?"

"Sweet pretty little thing," the fellow confided in him. "Barely old enough, if you ask me. Actually felt a bit sorry for her… but then, it's not our place to question, now is it?"

"It is most certainly not," the tall man sternly concurred, and the guard lapsed into a studied impassivity.

Jinnson unlocked the master bedchamber doors with a very judicious and discreet use of the Force, drawing in a deep steadying breath. Not that he precisely expected to find … anything _amiss…_ but decades of experience as a Jedi field agent and as a master to impetuous and precocious apprentices did prepare one to grapple with the unexpected.

A beam of light fell straight from the threshold over the sumptuous bed, picking out the coverlet's elaborate embellishments and illumining the delicate features of a young adolescent girl reclining in its very center. Her reddish hair spilled seductively over the ivory pillows, her lips parted in a soft and virginal innocence. One white arm lay atop the blankets in a gesture of sweet abandon. Qui-Gon's heart skipped a beat, his gaze scouring over the room in search of his young charge. The remnants of a gourmet repast – including an obviously empty bottle of some rare vintage – cluttered their serving tray in one corner. A pile of princely garments had been tossed nonchalantly at the bed's foot.

_Obi-Wan! _ the Jedi master projected sharply through the Force. Not that he was precisely _concerned…_ but still…

_Master,_ came the prompt unspoken response. _Just a moment. Washing up._

Qui-Gon nudged the 'fresher door open and peered critically at the disorderly interior, wondering at the heap of wet towels on the floor and the lingering scent of spicy soap in the humid air. Obi-Wan emerged from the adjacent shower-room, a towel wrapped about his waist and his skin glowing with the after-effects of vigorous exertion.

The young Jedi must have sensed the subtle tautening of his mentor's nerves, for he raised one ironic eyebrow. "You will be pleased, master. I've done something tonight which I've never done before."

The tall man studied his protégé's face intently, noting the carefully constructed mental shields that rebuffed his curious probing. "Oh?"

Obi-Wan's eyes glinted. "I did just as you advised a few days ago, master," he continued, demurely. "I was able to release my anxieties and attend to the Living Force."

"Padawan – "

"In fact," said Padawan interrupted, pulling Beju's nightshirt over his head and running fingers through his damp hair until it stood in rakish spikes, "I don't see why so many masters at the Temple look askance at such things. I am fortunate that you are so open-minded on the subject."

The Jedi master's mouth thinned. He felt an unfamiliar clenching deep in his gut.

"I can't wait to apply the technique in the dojo," his apprentice added, thoughtfully.

Qui-Gon blinked, holding the boy by one shoulder. "Obi-Wan. What are we talking about.?"

One corner of the Padawan's mouth twitched upward. His eyes widened in mock confusion. "The Forked Lightning kata, of course… what else would I be referring to, master?"

The Jedi master released his pent-up breath in a rush. "Brat," he muttered.

Obi-Wan bowed respectfully, smug amusement swirling in the Force between them.

Qui-Gon shut the door and leaned against it. "Who is the girl?" he inquired softly.

All levity instantly fled the young Jedi's demeanor. "The daughter of Niik-Al. Merggum had her delivered to Beju as a … gift. I – I'm afraid it may be my fault. I told that Tervashsu I craved something novel, and I think my meaning was lost in translation."

"Ah." The tall man replied. "Novel as in novice. She must have been terrified."

Obi-Wan affirmed this with a fleeting, rueful smile.. "She thought I was going to.. well. I used a mind trick on her, master – she was beyond reason, and I didn't know what else to do. She said that Merggum would have both her and her father killed if she failed to satisfy Beju's desires. I can't send her away, but I _won't _ play along with such atrocious cruelty." A rebellious note crept into this voice. "I'd rather this mission fail."

Qui-Gon regarded him soberly. "You make the dilemma worse by presenting the choice in such a light. I have not suggested that you _do_ play Merggum's vile game. Do not cast me in the role of antagonist, Obi-Wan."

The Padawan dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry, master – I intended no disrespect."

The older man's expression softened. "There are many hidden pressures in this situation. Let us find a solution together. I think you might easily persuade Merggum to let you keep your new friend a few days. Perhaps she has insight into the Xolinthi Cooperative's underside – Merggum's enemies may be our best source of information, especially if there is an underground resistance movement brewing in the sector."

Obi-Wan nodded. "What about her father? Can we not find a way to release him?"

"That is more problematic. But I may have found a weak link in Mergumm's household. We must be patient and wait for the right opportunity – I feel we should continue our investigation longer."

"We do have evidence of criminal activity," the young Jedi objected. "Why not call in the local authorities now?"

Qui-Gon shook his head. "There are deeper things stirring here. I discovered today that Merggum is working for some outside interest, one with a stake in Coruscant's current political upheaval. We should extend our stay and seek further answers."

This decision did not inspire his apprentice with wild enthusiasm, but it did not provoke any strident objections, either. "There is Gala, also," the Padawan supplied. "I know Beju is a convenient cover, but there is something else… elusive."

"Another bad feeling?" Qui-Gon's eyes twinkled. "Force help us."

"I'm going to sign that Trade agreement tomorrow," Obi-Wan announced, crossing his arms. "It's the only way. It may solidify our relationship with the Xolinthi… and further alienate Beju from his homeworld."

"A bold gambit, but dangerous . Tread carefully. We do not know Merggum's ultimate intentions, nor what he is willing to sacrifice to achieve them."

"Yes, master… "The Padawan stifled a yawn. "I will remember."

"In the meantime, the Prince needs his beauty rest," Qui-Gon decided, ushering his young companion back into the main room. "To bed with you."

"But-!"

The Jedi master held up a finger. "Appearances must be maintained." He nodded at their slumbering guest. " I'll wake you before the meeting tomorrow." His unremitting gaze offered no quarter, and he maintained an imperious post by the doorway until his reluctant apprentice had gingerly crawled beneath the topmost coverlet, at the very edge of the wide mattress. The girl dreamed on beside him, blissfully oblivious to his presence.

"You overdid it," the Jedi master observed, on his way out.

* * *

"Really!" the Galan protocol unit dithered. "This is a travesty! His Excellency awaits the Prince's presence, and you haven't even roused His Highness? How is he supposed to make a punctual appearance, much less be properly groomed and attired? Have you any idea how many violations of etiquette are entailed in your tardiness?"

Mr Jinnson finished his tea and set the cup down in its saucer. "We will be there in a timely fashion," he assured the panicking droid. "It is inadvisable to disturb His Highness too early in the morning –"

But the fussing droid had already shuffled across the common room to the master bedchamber's doors and flung wide the portals. Several of the security men craned their necks to get a better view. The royal valet took another sip of tea and peered curiously into the room's quiet interior.

"Oh dear," the droid blustered. The young maiden, kneeling amidst the soft mountain of satin and silk, started and uttered a strangled cry of surprise, the fingers of one hand coiling tentatively in a stray lock of Beju's dark hair. The Prince himself, sprawled languorously against the pillows, slatted one eye open and glared at the intruder.

The girl jerked her hand backward, and the Prince jolted upright, scooting toward the mattress' edge.

"Get out of here, you prurient clod of excrement!" the ruler of Gala snapped. "How dare you violate my privacy?"

"Good heavens," the protocol expert muttered, looking upon the tender boudoir scene with manifest disapproval. "Whatever is the galaxy coming to? In my day, they taught the virtues of moderation and abstinence."

"You bore me," the Prince yawned. "Take your antiquated morals and shove them up your binary motivator."

The poor droid appeared to have blown a circuit somewhere. It staggered backward, emitting inarticulate cybertronic blips and screeches, limbs jerking in outrage.

"_Your Highness," _Mr. Jinnson interrupted. His tone of voice brought the impudent young aristocrat up short with an expression reminiscent of a schoolboy caught red-handed in some major felony. He stepped through the doors and shut them upon the much-intrigued audience outside. The droid's nonsensical ravings could still be heard through the panels.

Beju quailed under his servant's regard for a full ten seconds before he recovered himself. "Ah, Jinnson," he managed at last. "What is on my Royal Agenda for today?"

His valet cocked an eyebrow. "The Trade agreement meeting, if you recall."

The young girl had by this time backed her way into corner, staring at Jinnson with wide and fearful eyes. "Who are you?" she peeped.

Qui-Gon made her a short bow. "The Prince's personal gentleman, miss. I beg your pardon for the intrusion."

Niik-Al's daughter clutched at her gown, wide amber eyes shifting to Beju. "Oh, please.. you aren't going to send me away are you? I beg you!"

"I'm not sending you away," the Prince told her, earnestly. "I.. I will tell Merggum I am pleased with you."

The girl blinked. "But, but – you didn't, I mean we didn't…"

Beju lifted haughty brows. "It is my own prerogative to decide what _pleases_ me," he declared, sauntering into the fresher as though this were the final word on the matter.

Mr. Jinnson rummaged in the Prince's wardrobe and produced a spare nightshirt for their guest's use. "I'm afraid you will need to stay here," the tall man advised her. "For your own safety."

The girl nodded, numbly, clutching the proffered garment to her chest. Her eyes rested on the closed 'fresher door. "The Prince is much too handsome to be as evil as they say," she confided in her new friend.

The Jedi master's mouth twisted slightly. "Appearances can be deceiving," he gently informed her. "But I think you are safe with His Royal Highness, for the time being. Forgive me, but I didn't catch your name?"

"Oh. Estra. My father is Niik-Al, the resistance leader."

"I see." The tall man nodded solemnly. "Your family background is, of course, not my concern. My duty is to tend His Highness' needs."

Estra puzzled over this statement, clearly unsure of its implications. Eventually she offered Jinnson a timid smile. "Thank you," she ventured. "You are very kind. Not – not at all what I expected."

"And what was that?"

"Well…" the girl perched hesitantly on the edge of the mattress, studying the wadded cloth in her hands. "You seem more like part of the resistance. Are you… are you from the Home Rule party on Gala? My father spoke of them, and their campaign to prevent the Prince from consolidating an alliance with the Cooperative. Is the Prince perhaps not such a monster as we were told?" Her dark eyes lit with hope.

Mr. Jinnson considered her cautiously. "You should perhaps leave such matters to those with more experience," he suggested. "Too much knowledge could be a hazardous possession."

"But, I thought – oh, I don't know what to do. Isn't there some way you can help? You seem so kind… and my father is imprisoned. Couldn't the Prince talk to Merggum? Use his influence? He could charm a gundark, I feel sure of it."

The valet maintained a stony impassivity. "I'm sure it is not my place to presume to say what His Highness might or might not do. I merely serve."

Estar rolled her eyes at him. "I'll ask the Prince myself," she decided, taking courage from the very suggestion. "…He has _lovely_ eyes."

Mr. Jinnson did not even bother to seek any logical connection between these two statements. "If you will excuse me,"" he said, formally, "I must help His Highness get dressed." With these words, he left Estra to her own distressing thoughts and hastened to prepare the Prince of Gala for his all-important meeting with the Xolinth Prime.


	11. Chapter 11

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 11

* * *

Chylld wiped her hands on her apron and stood arms akimbo, glaring at the sheepish visitor to her clanking, bustling domain.

"Thought you was never coming back, then," she huffed, eyes still traveling appreciatively over the royal Galan valet's tall figure. "Nice of you to show up."

Qui-Gon ignored the sarcastic undercurrent of this greeting and took a step forward, bowing contritely and returning the hangar bay code key to its proper owner. "I beg your forgiveness," he murmured. "His Highness importuned me, and I have been beset by his demands ever since."

The portly cook relaxed her battle stance somewhat. "Well, that's an occupational hazard, I suppose," she admitted. "Why don't you apply for service elsewhere, Mr. Jinnson? Surely a man of yer talents could find a post in another gentleman's household?"

The Jedi master shrugged. "Until now, I've never had cause to think about it," he offered, tucking Chylld's arm beneath his own and leading her willingly to an unused counter in the kitchen's back corner. A cleaning droid skimmed away underfoot, tootling its dismay.

Chylld fluttered her lashes. "Why, what do you mean?"

Mr Jinnson spread his hands upon the scarred and pocked surface of the worktable. "Have you never dreamed of leaving Xolinth?" he inquired.

She leaned forward, propping chin in two hands and sighing wistfully. "Oh, I have at that… truth be told, Mr. Jinnson, I really wanted to be a nursemaid… this isn't my first choice of profession. I could be happy as a mynock sitting with some little ones.. over on Alderaan or somesuch. But Merggum's not one to be letting anyone go. A body doesn't just up and leave the Prime's household, let me tell you."

The royal valet studied her gravely. "That is unfortunate."

"Aye," Chylld sighed. "What of you, Mr. Jinnson? Don't you have family elsewhere in the galaxy? You don't look to be native Galan to me."

He spread his hands. "I have a …sister. She's blind, living on Coruscant. I don't see her as much as I should like. We grew up very close… but life has kept us apart. On the other hand, I feel a profound sense of obligation to His Royal Highness. Indeed, if I may say so, I often feel that it is only my influence which keeps him from straying down a path of destruction."

The cook snorted at that. "Well, your influence don't count for much, then! But still… I do admire the sentiment. Not many nowadays has such a sense of duty to their lords. It's a fine thing. Though I can see you have a soft spot for the royal bratling, despite all your griping. A softie, just like me, that's what you are, I think."

Jinnson merely smiled.

"Well," Chylld briskly changed the subject. "Let me let you in on a secret. I've got a one-way transmitter, you see – coded in sync with Merggum's blocking signal. We could send this sister of yers a little message, let her know you care, see?"

"That would be lovely."

The cook watched him hungrily. "And you can render me another bit o' assistance in exchange," he coyly suggested. "My dishwasher droid went on the fritz, useless piece of scrap that he were. You clean up the mess that old slacker left over there and then we'll have a cuppa together, what do you say?"

Qui-Gon raised his brows, but decided that acquiescence was his best option. He stripped off his livery tunic - eliciting a gasp of heartfelt delight from his acquaintance - and tied an apron about his waist, warily eyeing the clouds of hot steam and the enormous pile of soiled crockery and cook-pots stacked in the industrial sinks just beyond.

Needless to say, Chylld stayed on to supervise the proceedings, her round cheeks rosy with a rare enthusiasm.

* * *

"You are making a wise decision, for your world and for its posterity," Hiu Merggum rumbled, nodding his head encouragingly at Prince Beju of Gala.

The young Prince flicked an imaginary speck of dust off one lace cuff. "I hope so," he drawled. "There are many on Gala who would be willing to fight a war over the terms of this agreement."

The Xolinth Prime's lips curved upward over sharpened teeth. "As allies in a greater cause, we pledge Xolinthi forces ot the suppression of your native terrorists and seditionary groups. It will not be a difficult matter."

Beju drew in a deep breath and regarded the many datapads strewn on the table before him. "Very well," he announced. "I shall sign. Gala shall enter the Xolinthi Mercantile Cooperative as a full member." He flourished the electrostylus in his right hand and set to inscribing his most florid royal signature to each and every one of the documents, only pretending to read the detailed contents of each one.

Pall Toeffer collected the 'pads one by one as the formalities were concluded, handing them to a reedy secretary from a neighboring system. The Yammutz bowed deeply when the Prince had finished. "Welcome, Beju. You have promoted a brighter future for the entire galaxy."

Beju lounged in his chair and propped a booted foot upon the table's edge as the Cybernetic Guild executive sidled away to fetch drinks for the entire company. "I can't wait to see the Nemoidian's ugly squashed faces when they hear the news," he sneered. "It'll knock their hats off, I'd wager."

Merggum folded his hands over his broad girth. "Gala will be a test of our new commando squads. The flimsy droids used by the Federation are no match for our trained mercenaries – or for your native security forces, my lord."

The young Galan grimaced. "The Home Rule Party has a great many supporters," he warned the Xolinthi leader. "I hope you are not overconfident, Merggum."

"No, no," the Weequay assured him. "Tomorrow I will take you to our training facility; you can see for yourself the glory that is the Xolinthi Army of Independency."

The Prince's foot slid back to the floor as he half-rose. "Independency?" he repeated, concern edging his tone.

Pall Toeffer and Merggum exchanged a knowing look.

"Be careful, my Prince," the Yammutz leered. "You have just fixed your royal seal to a secessionist cause. We are in this together, like it or not."

Beju was on his feet the next instant. "What? I signed a Trade agreement – a monopoly contract, not a declaration of rebellion. The Senate will not –"

"The Senate," Maergumm calmly corrected him, "Will look the other way, so long as Gala's electoral vote swings the balance of the next election. Valorum is the man we want – a traditionalist, full of high ideals and antique notions of government. A fool who believes in limiting the power of the galactic legislature. He is just the one we need to overlook our … local squabble."

The Prince frowned. "I don't understand."

"You don't need to," Merggum told him. "Our plans extend into the next decade. You, Beju, will have grown to adulthood by the time this matters to you – and in the meantime, we will insure that Gala prospers exceedingly. As we discussed, our shipping regulations are not so .. restrictive.. as the Republic would like."

The young Galan sank petulantly back into his seat, accepting the fluted cylinder offered him by Toeffer. He raised his glass in salute with the other members of the party. "To prosperity."

He downed the acrid contents in one go, swallowing the bitter dregs last. It left a very bad taste in his mouth.

* * *

"Pass the salt, Jinnson," Prince Beju of Gala commanded.

His valet handed over the crystal shaker and sampled the soup. Estra, wrapped in the Prince's spare dressing gown, and looking considerably more at ease than she had the evening before, laid into her own portions with a ready appetite while Beju himself liberally seasoned the creamy green stew in his bowl.

"Dreadful," he muttered, testing the mandanga bean concoction. "Such plebian fare. I should have the cook whipped."

Jinnson poured himself some wine. "I think you would find her a most obliging personality, unworthy of ill treatment, my lord," he objected. "If you will forgive my saying so."

The Prince ripped a soft roll in two and popped one half in his mouth, favoring his manservant with a curious and half-accusing stare. Beside him, Estra laid down her utensil in affront. "You would not have a servant punished simply because you do not care for the food?" she exclaimed. "I don't believe you."

"I have had men executed for less," the aristocrat informed her, reaching for the wine bottle only to have it deftly snatched away by Jinnson before he could grasp it. He shot a pointed look at the royal valet, who merely poured himself the last serving and set the empty decanter down with quiet deliberation. The Prince's chin jutted out in a small pout.

"Oh, I wish you would not tease me like that," the poor girl lamented, wringing her napkin into a tight twist. "My father… he is a good man… do you think, possibly – my lord Prince Beju – could you not do something for me? Could you not ask Merggum to release him. I – I will stay and, and _please_ you… whatever you wish. Oh, please."

Beju casually filched Jinnson's glass and took a liberal swig of its contents, placing the goblet in front of his own place setting. "You say your father is a good man," the young Galan mused, "And yet I am told he is involved in a most insufferable protest against his rightful ruler. On Gala we also have a traitorous and disloyal partisan uprising. Why should I take an interest in anyone committed to such base anarchy?"

Estra blushed prettily. "Oh! But Merggum is not the rightful ruler here… he is an usurper, one with no decency and no mercy in him."

"Really. "Beju was unimpressed. He lifted a sardonic brow. "The Home Rule party on Gala makes the same fallacious claims about my own person. I grow weary of such tiresome rhetoric. Your father is a rabble-rouser and a radical."

"He is a noble man!" the girl surged to her feet. Her eyes flashed with outrage. "How dare you."

"Sit down," Beju ordered sharply. "You are beginning to _displease_ me."

The poor girl slumped back in her seat, tears twinkling in the corners of her eyes. She pushed her dinner plate away and gazed forlornly at her lap.

Jinnson gave a delicate cough. "Perhaps, miss, His Royal Highness would benefit from a full and rational explanation of your father's activities. I think you will find he is not unsympathetic to a just cause… but it is difficult to lend ear to those who offer nothing but slogans and exaggerations."

Niik-Al's daughter took a deep breath. "And if I do.. tell you… you promise to help me?"

Prince Beju tipped his chair back on two legs. "Perhaps," he replied, noncommittally.

"Oh, that's the same as a promise, I know it!" the girl crooned. "I'll tell you all about the resistance. It's not what you think."

* * *

Prince Beju edged another few centimeters to his left, uncomfortably aware of Estra's breath fluttering at the nape of his neck. He dared not imagine what the young woman might do if he were to roll over, unwisely exposing himself to her affectionate and sighing contemplation. In some ways, he reflected wryly, he rather preferred the Tervashsu courtesan's approach. That had been straightforward, a bold frontal attack, something one could meet head on, like an aggressive saber opponent. This was simply…irksome.

He scooted further away as the girl's arm draped over his shoulder in an unconscious embrace. Another ten centimeters and he would be off the bed entirely. He reached through the Force to nudge at Qui-Gon's mind, but found only the placidity of unruffled slumber at the other end of their bond.

Estra uttered a low and joyful moan in her sleep and nestled close again.

"Blast it." The Prince abandoned all effort at repose and slipped quietly to the floor, kneeling in meditation posture, gathering the disorderly dregs of restless thought and emotion, preparing to release them all into the Force. Among the shreds of irritation, and the fruitless scraps of speculation, there floated an unrelated and tantalizing subject of private wonderment. His treacherous imagination dared ask, however fleetingly, what it might be like if the girl were not herself but rather…

He exhaled slowly, banishing all such idle and useless psychic chatter. Siri Tachi had nothing to do with this mission, or anything else of importance at the moment. The thought had been as random and meaningless as his nightmare about the sarlaac bush. An unfortunate effect of the wine at dinner, he supposed, though he'd had but little.

He nudged more insistently at Qui-Gon through their bond, feeling that he should not be left unsupervised during his lonely midnight vigil, but received in answer only a faint acknowledgement and a vague mandate to desist. An even fainter image of a contrite Padawan washing a mountainous heap of soiled dishes followed, and then an ephemeral chuckle trailing into tranquil quietude as the Jedi master slid back to sleep.

The Prince indulged in a small disappointed frown. "Hm," he grunted. "Fine then."

But even the Force itself seemed to conspire against him. Every time he sank deeper into its soothing universal currents, it tautened mysteriously, rebuffing his efforts at meditation, pushing him inexorably back to the present moment and his state of nervous alertness. In fact, after several such fruitless attempts, his flesh began to crawl with an all too familiar and discomfiting sensation – one neither physical nor intuitive, neither specific nor general, neither personal nor impersonal.

Danger.

He rose slowly to his feet, senses unfurling into the lavish apartment, questing for malicious intent. Nothing. And yet the stirrings of nausea remained, the fluttering of an incipient adrenaline rush. The Force surged high around him, kindling in his veins, gathering for assault.

And yet all was quiet. He glanced toward the cabinet where his 'saber lay concealed, itching to have the smooth hilt in his hand. He sent a strident wave of alarm to the Jedi master in the next room, a Force-borne jolt sharp enough to rouse a dead bantha, and felt the tall man's sudden explosion of wakefulness, his unquestioning acceptance of the warning.

A moment later the bedroom doors opened, to reveal Qui-Gon's silhouette picked out in faint reflected silver. The Galan protocol unit and a pair of security men loomed in the dim background, curious and bemused.

Jinnson slipped over the threshold.. "What is it?"

Beju relaxed, feeling the tension in the Force unwind, dissipate into a memory. He swallowed, and looked about himself with a touch of embarrassment. "I felt –"

"What is it?" Estra echoed from her place in the bed, sitting upright with a small gasp. "IS something the matter?"

The two Jedi locked eyes.

"No," Jinnson soothed her. "Prince Beju's nerves are on edge. Signing the Trade agreement this afternoon was a momentous decision; doubtless he is plagued by concerns about the planetary backlash. I will fetch you a tonic, my lord." He ambled over to a side table and dissolved a fizzing tablet in a crystal water glass.

Obi-Wan sought for the elusive thread of warning in the Force, but it had disappeared, slinking back into the dark and veiled hiding place from whence it came. He accepted the proffered medicinal drink absently, tugging at the ostentatious gem in his earlobe.

"Oh my," Estra sighed, watching Beju's every move.

"I shall remain in attendance," the valet announced. "His Royal Highness is possessed of a very sensitive nervous disposition," he explained to the wide-eyed girl. "I shall exercise the utmost discretion, of course." He arched his brows meaningfully at the young Prince, who sullenly clambered back onto the mattress and reclined against the pillows with an expressive roll of his eyes.

Estra hesitated fractionally, then seemed to decide this arrangement was satisfactory. She draped herself against the Prince's chest and cuddled up comfortably, drifting back to a contented sleep in a matter of minutes.

The two Jedi, however, maintained a strict and silent watch the remainder of the night.


	12. Chapter 12

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 12

* * *

"Do all females take this long in the 'fresher?" Obi-Wan complained.

Qui-Gon considered the question gravely. "No," he decided, after a moment's thoughtful pondering. "But our young friend is not among that admirable minority who prove the rule by living in exception to it."

His Padawan nodded, still glaring disapprovingly at the closed bath-room door. "I don't see what she could possibly be _doing,"_ he mused.

"Best not to think on it too much," his mentor advised. "Show me the last part of that kata again. Your left foot was out of alignment last time around. It throws off your whole balance."

"Yes, master." The young Jedi positioned himself carefully and swept into the strict routine with slow grace, concentrating on perfecting each minute movement.

"Slower."

Grunting with effort, Obi-Wan performed the exercise in exquisite slow motion, fighting gravity and distraction. He ended in the traditional deep lunge, imaginary saber held high and straight over his head on the last exhalation.

"You're wobbling. Left foot under your center of balance. There. Better. Now hold it."

"How long?"

The Jedi master folded his arms and sat atop a carved chest, raising his brows warningly.

Obi-Wan sighed in frustration, realizing his mistake too late. "There is no _how long,"_ he obediently muttered.

"Very good." Qui-Gon watched the asteroids and space debris tumble in slow procession outside the broad window, backlit by a smear of silver starlight and a distant nebula. The trickle of running water in the adjacent 'fresher was almost chime-like, a fitting accompaniment to the solemn dance. The Force flowed, stately and unhurried, nearly at rest, revealing it secrets to those quiet enough to _listen. _Beside him, he could feel Obi-Wan sink into the placidity of the timeless moment, past his impatience with the girl's endless preening, past the ache and strain in his limbs and he held the difficult position for minute after minute, past the strictures of their affected roles.

"What was it that you sensed last night?" he asked quietly.

His apprentice inhaled, not seeking the answer. Not brooding on its implications. Simply _listening._ A smile of approval flittered over the tall man's features.

"A threat to Beju," Obi-Wan said, after a long pause. He spoke with assurance. "Betrayal," he added, as though surprised by the clarity of his own insight, the simple fact of it.

Qui-Gon nodded. "Your decision to sign the Trade Agreement was the right one. Now we shall see how the sabaac cards fall. You have angered at least one person here. But whom?"

The Padawan closed his eyes, half-afloat in the Force, mind dancing with the silent parade of rocks outside, weightless, anchorless, carried in a greater current. "The Cooperative, or the resistance movement headed by Niik-Al, or the Galan Home Rule Party. Or… this other person whom Merggum contacted." His brows contracted slightly. "Master, do you think –"

The 'fresher door opened, releasing a cloud of perfume-laden steam. "Oh!"Estra exclaimed. "What _are_ you doing, Prince Beju?"

Obi-Wan leapt to his feet. "Calisthenics," he informed her. "I grew quite _bored_ waiting for you to finish."

The girl ignored the Prince's glower and smiled prettily, spinning in place to show off her artful adaptation of his spare clothing to her slender frame. "Does this please His Highness?"

"It will do," Beju responded indifferently. "Shall we be on our way? I am eager to see this _training facility_ of Merggum's."

"I still don't see why I have to come," the girl pouted. "I would rather stay here, near my father."

Jinnson helped the Prince into his voluminous coat. "You are safest in the Prince's company. I will try to speak with your father today, and I shall send him word that you have not been harmed."

"Oh, thank you!" Niik-Al's daughter threw her arms about the royal valet in a demonstrative embrace.

Qui-Gon extricated himself from their enthusiastic young guest, and deposited her on Beju's arm with a small bow. "I do but my humble duty."

* * *

"I've a message for you, Mr. Jinnson," Chylld murmured, summoning him into the relative privacy of the food refrigeration unit. "From that sister of yours. Came over the transmitter earlier." She dug about in the pockets of her grease stained apron and withdrew a crumpled scrap of flimsi. "Wrote it down, I did, so as not to forget. Here you are." She spread the crinkled plastifilm out in her broad hands and cleared her throat. "She says she misses you awful, and yer uncle will be in the sector two standard from now if you need private transport back to Gala. Oh – and she sends her regards to the Prince – awful cheek that, and I hope you don't take offense Mr. Jinnson she being your sister and all but to send her best to His Highnesss, that's getting above her station if I do say so."

"She is a spirited woman," Qui-Gon agreed. "Is that all her message?"

The cook smacked her own forehead playfully. "Stars and galaxies, I did almost forget. She also sent that you should keep yer head down a bit, what with the Nemoidians supportin' the Home Rule Party in the Senate debates and all. I surely didn't understand all that part, for sure as day never comes here I'm no political type, and what's the Core got to do with us is what I'd like to know, them all cozy on Coruscant and the rest of us making a living like decent folk?"

"What indeed?" the Jedi master quietly mused. Tahl's message was … disturbing. The revelation of Nemoidian backing for Gala's isolationist party was troublesome. The Trade Federation had political connections and the money to back up its threats, unlike the feisty but heretofore limited reactionaries on the planet. In the light of this development, Prince Beju's decision to sign the Trade Agreement could provoke a civil war – not the most desirable outcome of Jedi interference.

"Oh, cheer up, then." Chylld tsked under her breath and hustled him out into the main kitchens again. "You can help me do a kindness to them poor souls what Merggum has in the clinker. Has 'em scheduled for execution any day now. I'll be sending down a last meal worth the eatin' of it, and a bit o extra fer the guards, too, then. Suppose you might just tote it down for me? These droids are right useless, malfunctioning and breaking straight down all the time like they do, you'd think a body could find decent help these days."

"Certainly," the royal valet assured her. "Your wish is my command."

"Oh, Mr. Jinnson.! You _are_ the gallant one."

* * *

Merggum flashed his twin rows of razored teeth in a predatory smile. "I see you were well-entertained by my gift."

Prince Beju of Gala drew the aforementioned 'gift' closer to himself, brows lifting. "I think I shall take her back with me to Gala," he announced. "The courtiers and handmaidens in the palace would do well with some competition."

The Weequay waved a magnanimous hand. "As you like… but if you tire of her before you depart, my men would be happy to have the table scraps."

The girl sucked in a terrified breath and burrowed closer into Beju's side, hands clutching at his opulent jacket.

The young Galan gazed blandly out the transport's curved viewport. "Of course," he yawned. "Noblesse oblige. Aren't we there yet?" he added, a note of petulance coloring his otherwise world-weary tone.

"In a moment, my Prince, you will see our facility. It is.. just there. The asteroids provide excellent camouflage and a ready natural defense against intruders."

An enormous stone, crusted in some white mineral which could not be water but resembled the first breath of fallen snow, turned languidly on it side as they threaded their way slowly through the debris field, revealing a hidden hangar bay shielded in flickering red. The Xolinth shuttle twisted into sync with the lumbering mass of space rock, and edged cautiously through the maglev barrier, settling within the cavernous hold.

Beju stood and stretched. "Very well…. Let us see this so called security force you've been raising, Merggum. I don't believe for a moment they can outdo my Galan royal guard."

The pilot took a moment to adjust the ship's systems to the new pressurized environment, delaying their exit another minute. Beju shifted impatiently.

"Is that a wager?" Merggum chuckled coldly. "I will accept, You shall select for us the first provinces on Gala you wish to punish for insubordination, and I shall give the order for Xolinth forces to strike without mercy. It will require no more than a demonstration of power, Prince Beju."

The young aristocrat frowned. "What? Attack my civilian centers? How barbaric. I won't have it."

But the Xolinth Prime leaned closer, leering. "You are a full member of the Cooperative now, may I remind you. Such decisions are made by committee. And we have decided already that your Home Rule Party has earned a swift retribution. You will select the first targets, or we shall revert to the default option of decimating your court. A lesson _must_ be taught, and there is little doubt traitors are numbered among your own advisors."

Beju swallowed, but his face conveyed only indifferent boredom. "What? Those useless poltroons? You can have 'em."

"Very wise," Merggum smiled. "Let me show you the task force we shall send home with you – for your own safety, of course. I would not want any rebels on your planet getting above themselves with an assassination attempt."

The Prince's mouth thinned, but he held his tongue as he was led down the shuttle's ramp and into the training facility proper.

* * *

It took only a simple mind-trick to leave the Xolinth prison guards snoring happily in the corridor outside the detention level. Qui-Gon slipped past them, conveniently filching the nearest one's magnetic key, and let himself into the high security holding cell, bearing a tray laden with Chylld's best culinary efforts - "a bit of cheer for them poor blighters," as the soft-hearted cook had termed it.

"Who are you?" Niik-Al grated out when the barrier to his cell was lowered to admit a tall stranger in Galan livery.

"I've brought you food, and news," the man said, urging the haggard prisoner to eat his fill of the meal. Niik-Al tore into the sumptuous fare with the abandon of a starving man.

"News? Of the resistance? Have more been captured or killed? Do not torment me with my failures."

Qui-Gon sat back on his heels, speaking in a near whisper. "Your daughter is here in the Xolinth headquarters, and she is safe for now."

Niik-Al's head shot up. "My Estra? Merggum has not…harmed her?"

"No. I am valet to Prince Beju of Gala. Your daughter is under his protection at the moment. She is greatly concerned for your well-being."

Niik-Al shrugged. " I am a dead man," he said, flatly. "But I would die happy if I knew she had been spared Mergumm's cruelty. Can you do anything for her? Surely you have not brought me this news for no reason?"

Qui-Gon hesitated. "I can promise nothing, but there may be a way. According to Estra, the resistance has been trying to send an emissary to the Galactic Senate, to beg for aid?"

Niik-Al sighed. "Tried and failed. Mergumm has blockaded every hyperlane. He controls the communications hubs. His allies are everywhere. Our pleas go unheard, or do not so much as escape our lips."

"Do you have evidence to present the Senate? And how many of you are incarcerated here? I need numbers to plan effectively."

The resistance leader raised weary eyes again, a spark of suspicion flaring in their depth. "Who are you?" he demanded again.

Qui-Gon stood. "A friend. I may be able to arrange your transport to Coruscant. Be ready."

"This is a trap."

"You must trust me," the Jedi master sighed. "If you wish to bring Merggum to justice, and see your daughter safe."

Niik-Al ran trembling hands over his face. "You give me no choice," he muttered, watching his nameless visitor retreat through the cell door, taking away the empty dishes. As he passed the sentinels, they started into a groggy wakefulness.

"Nothing happened here," the royal Galan valet said, making a strange gesture before the blinking guards' faces.

And by some miracle of fate, they seemed to accept his statement without question. Niik-Al took it as a sign.

* * *

"Good rest to you, Prince Beju," Merggum said, parting ways with him inside the Xolinthi headquarters' main hangar. "I hope our tour was illuminating. I think you need have no fear of us losing control of the situation on Gala."

Beju made a curt bow to his host and pulled Estra along beside him, making a beeline for the exit.

"Oh, that was terrible," Estra moaned. 'Did you see the numbers of men he has in training? Their weapons? Oh, where did they get such horrible things?"

"The Cybernetic Manufacturing Guild," Beju grunted. "The Yammutz are useful allies. I've not seen some of those weapons before, either. And the training center was… unusual."

"Oh, slow down, please!" the poor girl begged, pattering and stumbling in his wake. "It is _evil_ to subject living beings to such treatment! They were like droids, the way they stared at me… no souls in their bodies.. oh dear…"

"It is called _behavioral conditioning," _ the young Galan ground out, picking up his pace yet further.

"How do you know all this?"

The Prince stopped inside the lift and slammed his palm against the door controls, a terrible scowl upon his features.

"Oh, please, please!" his companion implored him. "Is Merggum really going to send all those awful men to Gala? You have to see, Prince Beju, this is what he's done all throughout our home worlds. Commando strike forces, midnight raids, terror tactics. He'll make your planet part of his empire, too. You have to stop him – get away! You shouldn't have agreed to that Trade contract. You've condemned your people to war and suffering."

The last accusation brought the Prince out of his brooding silence with a snap. "I know that!" he ground out, fixing the pleading girl with a burning look. She shrank back against the burnished interior paneling.

Beju winced. "I'm sorry," he said, much more gently. "I – need to talk to Jinnson. He'll know what to do."

"Your… your valet?" Estra repeated dubiously. She blinked rapidly in confusion. "But why-"

The question never left her lips. The lift jolted to screeching halt, sending her tumbling to its deck. Beju braced himself against the near wall, hand slipping beneath his jacket to grasp at the weapon concealed there. The lift bumped again, then lost power. Estra whimpered in the eerie darkness.

A hissing, like the death rattle of an expiring beast; a sickly odor, heavy with sweet poison; the bright pain of convulsion as two pairs of lungs rejected the suddenly toxic air.

"Quick!" Beju's voice cracked into a retching cough as he seized the girl by her arm and yanked her across the close space. A terrible buzzing snap echoed in the lift's confines, a tongue of sapphire fire erupting from nowhere, casting grotesque shadows on the walls, picking out the snaking coils of green gas rising murderously from the floor vents.

Sparks and slag showered down, igniting to scattered flashes of emerald where they touched the rising cloud of toxin. A piece of the roof fell clanging to the floor where the blade carved through; Estra screamed in alarm, choking violently on an indrawn breath as Prince Beju seized her bodily and leapt straight through the opening.

"Oh! Oh!" she panted, fingers desperately clawing at his sleeves, eyes wide with mingled terror and shock. The impossible humming blade cut another opening in the shaft, the stench of molten insulation added to the sickly coils of green. Beju thrust the girl through this rough aperture first, heedless of her panicked cries as her clothing brushed the red-hot edges, and then rolled through himself, ending on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. He scrambled upright, dragged the protesting girl with him, and flew down the corridor to the nearest intersection, opening the heavy sealed doors without touching them.

He closed the panels, and sank against their smooth surface, chest heaving with exertion. "Dioxis," he hissed between gritted teeth. "-Instantly deadly. That was too close. Are you all right?"

Estra nodded mutely, massaging her cramping belly and chest. She stared at Beju through several painful breaths, her lips parted in surprise.

"You," she managed to choke out at last. "You….aren't a Prince _at all_, are you?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Lineage VI**

* * *

13.

* * *

"That-that laser sword …. You! I know who you are!"

"This isn't the time to discuss it." They hustled down the corridor, all the way to the guest suite's elaborate double doors.

"But – but – if you're a Je-mmmph.."

He kept his hand over her mouth another precautionary moment before releasing her. Estra straightened her clothes and looked up at him blushing. "Oh," she hiccupped. "Oh. When we were… I mean when I met you the other night, and….oh."

Obi-Wan was confounded by the vibrant sense of embarrassment rolling off the girl in waves. What possible relevance did the unusual circumstances of their introduction have upon the present crisis? He impressed upon her the need for silence. "That doesn't matter," he told her, sternly, in what he hoped was a creditable imitation of a master bringing an overexcited Padawan to heel. Not that he had any _direct_ experience in that regard. " I don't know who made that assassination attempt, but until I do, say _nothing _ and trust _no one._ Well, except Jinnson," he added. "You can trust Jinnson."

"Oh," the girl nodded, auburn ringlets bobbing with the motion. "Is he also a-"

Beju rounded on his breathless companion. "Shush," he commanded again, allowing the Force to gird his sharp tone with severe authority. The monkey-lizard might be out of the bag, but there was no need to broadcast the fact to all and sundry.

_Master,_ Obi Wan projected across their bond for the hundredth time since the attack. He needed Qui-Gon's insight and counsel, and he needed it _now._ He raised his hand to the security scanner and the doors slid open.

Estra moved forward unwittingly, only to be arrested by his hand about her wrist. "Wait a moment," he said. "Stay here." He crossed the threshold cautiously, searching the dimly lit interior of the apartment with eyes and the Force. Magg Zurl and the other security men bowed to him as he entered.

"Your Royal Highness," Zurl murmured in greeting.

"Oh, good _heavens!"_ the protocol unit exclaimed in affront, tottering from its post in the corner. "Prince Beju, please tell me you did not go gallivanting off on state business in such a dreadful state of disarray. There are _scorch_ marks on your collar and your cuffs, for stars' sake. Have you no sense of decorum?"

The Prince fixed the interpreter with a cold stare. "Where is my valet?" he demanded.

Two of the men moved to shut the front doors, sealing them in the silver twilight filtering through the windows. Beju strode to the far wall and snapped the illuminators on. "In you go," he instructed his timid companion, ushering her into the bedchamber before turning to address his staff.

"There has been a breach of security," he announced. "You will be required to accompany me as personal escort at all times. Four will remain here and see that there are no intruders in these rooms; the other four will serve as my bodyguards."

The Galans received this news with a flutter of apprehension and uncertainty. The Force conveyed only a vague current of unease, an expectation of trouble to come, as of yet unresolved into concrete form.

"Well?" Beju roared. "Don't stand there like a band of imbecilic louts!"

"We understand, Your Highness," Zurl hurriedly supplied the requisite words on behalf of his comrades. "Your safety is our foremost priority."

"Very good," the Prince grumbled, mollified. "Where is Mr. Jinnson? He has no excuse for such truancy. I require his presence."

"Your Highness is agitated. Allow me to fetch you a drink," the protocol unit suggested, bumbling over to the marble-topped sidetable. It fussed with the decanters and glasses for a moment before bringing a small tumbler of amber liquid to the fuming Prince.

Beju lifted the glass idly, somewhat surprised by the droid's show of graciousness. Its soulless optic plates gazed upon him with a flat and expressionless gleam, backlit faintly by the optic crystals. He had just raised the cup to his mouth, intending to sample its contents and then spit them in the interpreter's face, with some outrageously rude condemnation of servant and service alike, when the Force flared in bright warning.

He froze, his very fingertips tingling with a blood-deep knowledge, an intuitive certainty rising from the Force itself. The droid froze, a blank metallic mirror of his own hesitation. He swirled the amber liquid in its crystal prison, and took a dramatic sniff, feigning disgust.

"You worthless scrap-pile!" he shouted at the unfortunate droid. "This swill is unfit for my consumption. Pour it down the disposal at once."

"Oh dear!" the protocol expert blustered. "Of course Your Highness, it shall be disposed of immediately. How rude of His Excellency to provide you with inferior refreshments. I do apologize for the oversight – I am conversant in the etiquette and cultural customs of over six million distinct ethnological groups, but I do not possess the ability to distinguish between sensory-stimulants in organic –"

"Yes, yes." The Prince waggled the fingers of one hand beneath its flattened nose, and paced restlessly across the suite's length. His head slewed round a second before the doors parted to admit into the chamber.

"You're late!" Beju scolded. "I've been waiting for _minutes, _ Jinnson. I don't pay you to lolligag in the scullery maids' quarters."

The royal valet's mouth thinned, but he humbly bowed his head. "My apologies," he murmured.

Beju turned on his heel and stormed into the master bedchamber, followed by his meek and subservient valet.

No sooner had the doors closed behind them than Jinnson raised an eyebrow. "Scullery maids, hm?"

The Prince glanced over one shoulder at the wide-eyed girl perched upon the bed. "I am well aware of your petty vices, Jinnson. Do not insult me with your pathetic excuses."

"I shall draw a bath for you, miss," the tall man addressed Estra, ignoring his employer's taunt. "Come."

When he had safely stowed the girl in the fresher's confines – a locale from which she was, after all, unlikely to emerge for quite some time - he turned back to his young charge, relieving the Prince of jacket and waistcoat, and critically inspecting the burned hems of his silk shirt. "I was detained," he explained, "by the need to send a transmission. A second Jedi team will be in this sector within twenty standard hours, waiting our rendezvous."

Obi-Wan sucked in a deep breath and coughed, a harsh and rasping souvenir of his adventures in the lift.

"Sit a moment," Qui-Gon ordered, brows drawing together. He pushed the young Jedi down and spread a broad hand upon his back , radiating healing energy. "Tell me now."

"The lift – from the hangar bay to this level – was sabotaged." His chest spasmed again and he hacked once or twice. "Dioxis, master. It was an assassination attempt."

Qui-Gon exhaled slowly. "That is a trademark assassination technique of the Nemoidians. Who are, it would seem, closely allied with the Home Rule party on Gala. Your decision to sign the contract here has earned you an enemy."

"A traitor in our ranks," Obi-Wan concurred grimly. "At least some of the liqueurs in the other room are poisoned, as well. I almost drank a glass earlier, before I felt the Force's warning."

"And yet I do not sense deception or malicious intent in your staff, or the girl," the Jedi master remarked. " Curious." He traced a vigorous circle on his student's back, provoking another deep coughing fit. Obi-Wan bent over and spat up a clot of bloody mucus into his sleeve.

"Ugh… so uncivilized."

"But you feel better," the older man smiled. "That was a close escape, young one."

"And Estra… she saw my 'saber. Do you think she is to be trusted, master?"

Jinnson cast a thoughtful look at the closed 'fresher door. "I think this charade is nearly at its end," he said, instead of directly answering the question. "We must leave soon."

Obi-Wan's head came up. "What about the prisoners here? Estra's father? We can't leave them to be executed. Merggum will assume that our interference was caused by the resistance, if he discovers it. And he will punish his captives severely."

"I may have found a way to evacuate them… but it will be considerably riskier than merely disappearing ourselves."

This revelation did nothing to discourage his eager apprentice. "That doesn't matter. I am wiling to take the risk, master – we _must_ save those people."

"Very well." Qui-Gon gripped his shoulder lightly. "What did you discover at Merggum's training facility?"

Obi-Wan's lip curled. "He has a …conditioning camp set up. Intensive, by the looks of it. I didn't get to see what methods they are using – drugs, electropulsors, implants like that Sith-witch Zan Arbor –" he reined in his flaring temper as Qui-Gon's fingers tightened on his shoulders. "I'm sorry, master – but does that not seem strange? As though Merggum is connected to … . Something wider, something going on… elsewhere."

The Jedi master nodded soberly. "Keep your focus in the present," he reminded his Padawan. "What else? You are disturbed by your conversation with him."

Beju slumped forward, resting his head wearily between his hands. "He asked me – the Prince – to select targets for terrorist attack. They are going to invade Gala upon Beju's return .. Master, I've started a war!" he ended, hunching into a tense ball and immediately breaking into a prolonged coughing fit. "Or worse," he wheezed a minute later. "I've catalyzed a secessionist movement."

"From a certain point of view."

Obi-Wan's head shot up. "It's against the Code and a direct violation of the Order's mandate – at least from _my_ perspective," he growled, teetering precariously on the brink of disrespect. He studied his trembling hands, wrestling his temper under control.

"Then we should be glad it was Beju who committed such heinous and dishonorable acts, and not yourself."

The young Jedi lost his internal battle. "The _consequences_ will be the same, no matter who signed those documents, no matter what star-forsaken point of view you adopt!" He leapt to his feet and started pacing.

Qui Gon watched quietly. "Trouble has by all accounts been festering on Gala for some time; our actions here have merely lanced a boil. Keeping the peace does not and cannot always mean the suppression of hostilities," he counseled his agitated student.

"I still don't want such things on my hands." The young Jedi ceased his fretful peregrination and looked pleadingly at Qui-Gon. "It feels like…"- his eyes slid sideways – "…killing. Even in a good cause."

The tall man sighed, a soft grieving for that ravages wrought upon innocence by time. "I know. I wish it were otherwise, but you must accept that this is part of our duty, sometimes."

"Yes, master. And I am sorry for my earlier words. They were inappropriate …and I am grateful for your guidance."

The words were humble, and weighted with defeat, but dissatisfaction still oozed palpably across their bond. Qui-Gon opted to change tactics. "I would think," he suggested lightly, "that your focus should be centered on the fact that someone here is making an impressive effort to kill you, even if it isn't personal."

The Padawan obliged him with a tiny quirk of the mouth, his dark mood briefly overcome by his even darker sense of humor. "You are ever a steadfast source of encouragement, master," he replied, the Force sparking faintly with his sarcasm.

"Then let us turn our attention to a more uplifting topic of contemplation: by what means will your cunning adversary next attempt to effect your demise?"

Obi-Wan liked this even better. Imaginary personal failings could overcast his mind for days, if intervention was not made by some expert third party; a direct threat to his life, however, was a pure ray of sunshine breaking over gloomy horizons. He brightened immediately, folding his arms cynically across his chest and lifting one brow. "Whatever it is, I hope it's not _boring."_

"Excitement, adventure: a Jedi craves not these things," Qui-Gon sternly reminded him. "…But perhaps you should be prepared for some, all the same. I will stay as near as possible, but there are arrangements to be made. We will evacuate the Xolinthi's prisoners and take our leave as soon as the Republic ship arrives in this sector."

"What about Merggum?"

"Our mission was to collect evidence of wrongdoing. We have done that, and must leave his ultimate fate in others' hands.

Obi-Wan snorted. "The Senate judiciary?"

"It is not in our hands," the Jedi master gravely repeated.

* * *

"Oh, Mr. Jinnson, thank the merciful stars you've come! Another droid gone on the fritz just this afternoon and now the vent's clogged with build-up and what does Merggum do? He requisitions my best mechanic to clean up a mess some lughead made in the south lift shaft. Now, I ask you – is that decent or fair, I don't think! But p'raps you could just climb up in there and give it a look, you're such a _capable_ fellow I do declare, it makes my heart a flutter just to think o' what talents you got that aren't showing on the outside so to speak."

Qui-Gon took a moment to digest this rambling pronouncement, and determined that he was – at least explicitly - subject to no more onerous invitation than one to clean Chylld's venting system. "As you wish," he answered readily, sweeping a bow that made the cook titter and fan herself again. "And perhaps we could…ah.. converse afterward?"

"I'll get the tea things, then." Chylld bustled away to fetch the promised refreshments leaving the unfortunate Jinnson with the task of clearing the awkwardly angled air duct above the fusion stove. It was a thankless task and required more than moderate gymnastic skill; by the time he was finished, the royal valet's hair and beard were badly in need of a wash, and his shirt was torn and smudged in more than one place.

"Ah," his amicable companion sighed, smiling upon his success with a pleasure far out of proportionate the mundane victory over greasy build-up, "You are a saint."

"I prefer to think of myself as a seeker," he replied, gratefully accepting his tea. "As, Madam, are you."

"Why Mr. Jinnson you _do_ speak in riddles now don't you? I have never been a seeker, like you says – what a thought! I'm a respectable woman, I'll have you know, though I hope not _too_ respectable to 'preciate what's dropped in my lap, so to speak."

Qui-Gon's brows rose delicately, but he declined to make any comment. "I wonder then…" he mused aloud. "I fear the Prince and I will take my uncle's kind offer of private transport back to Gala. His Royal Highmess has, alas, nearly worn out his welcome here."

"You're leaving?" the cook gasped, stricken. "Already?"

""Not every departure must be a farewell," Jinnson gently assured her. "I wonder if you might consider giving up your position here. My uncle is well-connected in the Core and Mid Rim; he could easily find you a station in another household, possibly even on Gala."

Chylld winked slyly. "On Gala, he says, oh ho ho. I'd better be careful what I agrees to, eh, or you'll have me ending up as nurse to that royal bratling o' yers. Not that he don't need a woman's touch – the right and decent kind, I mean to say. It's clear as day the Prince ain't ever had a mother, the way he swaggers himself about and mouths off just as he pleases, too. If he'd a been in _my_ charge when he were a lad, now…" She pursed her lips and smacked the tea spoon menacingly against her opposite palm. "I woulda licked some manners into His Royal Highness' haughty arse, believe you me. But it's too late now. He's spoiled for good, and how I'd like to have a word with them that raised him, to be sure."

"Consider my offer," Jinnson replied, deliberately avoiding the topic of Beju's deficient moral formation.

Chylld abruptly sobered. "You close to this uncle o' yers?"

"I've known him most my life, yes."

"So you're close, then."

Qui-Gon's mouth twisted. A Jedi was permitted to tell an untruth in time of need, but… "He raised me."

"Well, he's a man of principle then, right enough, and maybe I might just believe what you says about him finding me a more decent position. It do break my heart somedays to be stuck here in Merggum's service – especially with them poor souls what he's got prisoner now and then." She sighed. "What'll become of them without me I don't like to think, Mr. Jinnson. I'm just that much of a softie, I admit it."

The royal valet drained his cup, deciding to take the risk. "There may be something we can do to help the prisoners, as well," he quietly informed his wide-eyed confidante. "But I will require your help."

"Oh, Mr. Jinnson!" Chylld pressed a hand to her bosom. "Anything at all you wants."

He leaned forward, and the cook inclined her head toward him, in ready and willing conspiracy.


	14. Chapter 14

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 14.

* * *

"Oh, Prince Bej- I mean, um, oh dear. I don't even know your _name, _ and here we are in the same bed!" Estra tittered.

Obi-Wan tried to employ the Yamalsa calming technique to stem the mortified rush of blood to his face. "You can call me Beju," he decided, hastily springing up from the luxuriant pile of silken duvets. "Everyone else does."

The girl's delicate brows formed a puzzled valley.

Qui-Gon laid out the Prince's attire upon a nearby dressing table. "You are scheduled to return to Gala this afternoon, Your Royal Highness. We must use this last day to greatest benefit." He nodded at the ornate suit and embroidered silk stockings. "Best assume the insignia of your office."

The young Jedi peered caustically at the selected garments. "If this is the badge of my office, I must have been demoted to court jester."

This one did not fly so loftily above Estra's pretty head; she giggled merrily at the jest. "Oh, you do say the drollest things, Prince Beju- I mean Beju.. oh dear? Is it _Master_ Beju? This is so terribly confusing!"

"Beju will suffice," Obi-Wan told her, casting a pained look at his mentor.

The tall man's mouth twitched at the corners. "An audience whose understanding is proportionate to one's wit is a great blessing," he observed dryly.

"Says the man who talks to his favorite _plants_," his protégé muttered.

Estra's look of perplexity increased tenfold.

"Merggum has planned a farewell banquet in the Prince's honor this evening," Qui-Gon said, ignoring the jibe. "We must have all in readiness before the festivities begin."

The Padawan nodded grimly. "I do hope this works… and there aren't more _complications _in the meantime."

"Oh! Do you mean rescuing my father?" the girl enthused. "Oh, do say you will! You must! You promisd to help and I just know you will – I can see it in your eyes, you couldn't possibly break a promise, you're just too perfect – you even _look _like a hero!"

The Yamalsa technique had no effect whatsoever this time. Obi-Wan 's Force signature shimmered with alarm. Outwardly, he merely raised his brows. "Oh, I'll do my best," he assured the girl. "But I've been rather tied up with being assassinated recently, so don't raise your expectations too high."

The acid humor missed its mark yet again.

"Perhaps," Qui-Gon smoothly intervened. "His Highness should hasten his toilette, since his day is so full of pressing engagements."

The Prince gathered up his clothing with slow, graceful deliberation and swaggered into the 'fresher, sparing Jinnson a sarcastic glance as he passed.

"Oh," Estra sighed appreciatively in the wake of this performance. She fiddled with the hem of her over-sized sleepshirt. "Mr.. Mr. Jinnson? May I ask you a question?"

The tall man inclined his head.

"Do.. well, that is, do Jedi never, ever have families? I mean, do they _never_ marry?"

"There are a few rare exceptions, but no." Qui-Gon delivered the blow as gently as possible.

The girl's face blanched and a trickle of worry, mixed with disappointment, swirled faintly in the Force. "Oh dear," she murmured, wringing the cloth between her fingers.

He opened his mouth to make a careful inquiry, but was interrupted by an imperious summons from the bath chamber.

"Jinnson!" his apprentice called out, "Get in here and help me with this star-forsaken fool's trumpery before I have you whipped for dereliction of duty."

"Excuse me, miss," the Jedi master bowed. "I am neglecting my primary obligation."

* * *

"At ease," Prince Beju addressed his rigidly saluting security officers. The Galans slumped into a more comfortable position, eyes warily resting on the whimsical tyrant they called master. "I want you to attend carefully to my instructions. We shall be departing for Gala later today… possibly ahead of schedule. I must attend a tiresome banquet this evening, some diplomatic nonsense, nothing worth my royal attention. I want you all on board the yacht and ready for take-off at my signal. Zurl."

"Yes, Your Royal Highness."

"You have more brains about you than the rest of these strumpet-spawned nitwits. I shall hold you personally responsible for seeing that all staff members are aboard that ship."

Zurl grunted his understanding.

"Good." Beju glared at the rich tapestries upon the far wall. "I shall be glad to be away from Merggum's pretentious décor," he observed. Then, "I nearly forgot to mention. We may be transporting some guests with us. You will permit them aboard without question. The slightest word of protest will be grounds for dismissal without pension."

"Yes, Your Highness." Zurl glanced uneasily at the bedchamber. "Will, ah, the young lady be among the guests?"

"Of course," the Prince yawned. "She is a delightful bauble. I cannot bear to part with her quite yet."

The guardsman shifted nervously. "Is she not, ah, His Excellency's property?"

"She is numbered among my multitudinous royal consorts now," the young Galan snarled, taking a threatening step forward. "Is that too advanced a concept for your limited cognitive capacity, Zurl?"

The hulking Galan cringed, intimidated by the much smaller figure. His jaw tightened. "No, Your Highness, I understand."

"Oh… one more thing," Beju added, casually. "Our departure may be rather abrupt. Merggum can be quite rude when occasion arises. I wish you to have the drives and navicomp prepped and waiting my command. At my signal, the pilot will take off and proceed straight to Gala. No loitering; stragglers are to be left behind. Is that clear?"

The appalled guards nodded in silent unison, exchanging concerned glances among themselves. Beju folded his arms in satisfaction, sniffing faintly.

The Galan protocol unit, unable to restrain its affronted sensibilities any longer, tottered forward, gesticulating sharply. "In other words, you intend to make another discourteous and sudden departure from an ambassadorial event! . Leaving directly from the banquet without a formal farewell to the collective Board will be taken as an act of utmost disrespect to the Prime! Prince Beju, after the debacle on Cato Nemoidia, I should think you would exercise more discretion in conducting your affairs with foreign principalities."

Beju's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Leave Cato Nemoidia out of this!" he commanded. "Those defective semi-sentients are no concern of mine. What does Gala care for a race of addle-pated reptiles? By natural right, they should be skulking under rocks on their own putrid world, not putting on airs and pretending to equality with their superiors."

The droid took umbrage at this shameless denunciation. "Such species-centric chauvinism!" it railed. "Absolutely appalling! Well, I never!"

"Somebody shut him down," the Prince sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward in exasperation. Magg Zurl reluctantly complied, propping the deactivated translator in a convenient corner while the others set about packing for their intended abrupt departure.

* * *

"Well, there's a good deal yet to be done here yet. Mr. Jinnson, I do declare. It's silly of me, at that, but it's my sense of professional pride is what it is. I've just got to make this last feast one worth the eating. Nothing spared and no expense, neither. I've got every droid in the place on it, and my staff too, such as it is. Now , now – don't you fret. I can see by that look in your eyes that you think I'm a silly old woman but I've got my things all set ot go and ready, that's a certainty. I don't have much by way of worldly endowments, well I mean the sort you can put in a suitcase anyway – I'd like to think I've the _other_ sort in abundance, if you follow my meaning Mr. Jinnson… ah, now, listen to me ramble when I ought by rights to be working."

Her companion made a soothing and neutral noise in his throat, a noncommittal grunt of half-attention, his focus trained almost exclusively upon the schematic readout in his hand. "So the main power generator is located in the sub-basement level."

"Oh, aye, and some idiot of an engineer thought that one up. Merggum's a paranoid, in case you hadn't observed so he says to the fellow – Techno Union, I think it was – he doesn't want no sensible ventilation shaft, what if a hot-shot suicide mission from the resistance sends a torpedo down that and it manages to get into the core reactor and blow us all sky-high? As though! And so, all because he can't sleep at night for thinking of impossible situations, he makes the blasted thing so small only a wee tiny droid can get in there for maintenance. And of course the first three mini-bots we send down there go malfunctional, what with all the radiation and so on, and they get stuck. So Merggum's got to go pay for a secondary maintenance access hatch to be built – cost him a whole week's of plundering that did – and he could have been spared the expense in the first place if he weren't so irrationally anxious. But it all comes down to rearing, Mr Jinnson. His Excellency the Prime was torn from his dear mother's breast at a tender age and so he suffers from these little obsessions and compulsions now and then."

Qui-Gon frowned over the diagram. "Still a narrow passage to traverse," he observed, ruefully.

"And that," Chylld brightly proclaimed, "Is why I am in the culinary arts and not no engineering department. I declare, imagine me trying to squeeze my little old self into some of these maintenance hatches. Lack-a-day. Or you, for that matter, Mr. Jinnson. You _are_ pleasingly broad across the shoulders, if I may be taking the liberty to say so."

"Hm," the Jedi master responded, his mind still absorbed in the map.

The cook wiped her hands on a handy rag and leaned over his pleasingly broad shoulder to whisper in his ear. "If you've time, I got a special treat to share afore we depart. Bit of a celebration , I thought. _Ch'xlatl, _Mr. Jinnson. Imported from the Core."

The tall man winced. "Ah… let us delay our enjoyment until we are safely back on Gala. I prefer to celebrate at leisure."

"Oh, well," Chylld waved a hand daintily. "If that's what you prefer. I'll take that as a promise."

* * *

"So boring," Beju groaned, sprawling in his posh chair.

Below, Merggum's fighting akks tore each other to bits, their bellicose howls and yaps blending with the spectator's cheers into a heady amalgam of adrenaline and bloodlust.

"Your Highness prefers entertainment with higher stakes?" Merggum astutely guessed. "I would be happy to make a small wager with you."

The Prince waved a languid hand. "My crown for your head," he suggested. "My bet is on the best dog."

The Xolinth Prime leaned over the balcony rail to observe the demise of the contest's loser. Handlers rushed forward into the fighting pit to prise the triumphant akk from the carcass of its foe, shock sticks at the ready. "But which one is the best, in your opinion?"

"The one that wins," Beju sighed, resting his cheek against the heel of one hand and stifling a yawn with the other. "Don't bore me with your philosopher's tricks and distinctions. You remind me of Jinnson, always trying to expand my horizons with absurd paradoxes. The fellow's a downright nuisance.. but he's blindly loyal, so I keep him about."

"It is wise for men such as ourselves to know who their true allies are," the Weequay observed. "Even among one's servants, treachery is rife. A trustworthy vassal is a blessing to be jealously guarded. As you are well aware, I am sure. The Home Rule Party would not hesitate to infiltrate your own household in the name of their delusional ideals."

"Too true," Beju admitted, watching the Prime cautiously. He leaned back, his chair perilously close to tipping point. "But I believe that traitors always reap the fruit of their dishonor in the end."

Merggum smiled, revealing his uncannily sharpened teeth. "Yes," he concurred, gravely. "Traitors and liars deserve to be punished, and seldom does Fate spare them such harsh justice. It is only a matter of time, Prince Beju. And I think the time has nearly come."

The Prince smiled blandly. "I do hope so. Waiting is so tiresome."

The Xolinth's lips curved upward, enigmatically, and he returned his attentions to the next round of bloody conflict in the arena below.

* * *

"…Estra and the Galan security will already be aboard the ship, ready for departure. I am not to touch any of the food at the banquet, since Chylld has heavily drugged most the dishes. The wine, likewise. You will create a temporary power failure in the lower levels and evacuate the prisoners to the docking level. Master…"

"The passageways should be only nominally staffed; most Mergumm's men will be in the dining hall. Besides, my Padawan, do you doubt my ability to confront a dozen or so opponents?"

"No," the young Jedi grudgingly allowed. "Fine. But I should still be with you."

"Drawing attention to your absence and thereby my activities? I don't think so. What next?"

"I feign illness, and ask the protocol droid to accompany me to an adjacent chamber. When the life support warning claxons sound, I use the distraction to slip away – leaving the star-forsaken droid behind –"

"A sad but necessary sacrifice."

"Behold my tears of lamentation," Obi-Wan remarked, deadpan. "And rendezvous at the hangar bay. If there is resistance, we are justified in fighting openly." His eyes gleamed, and one hand brushed against the hidden pommel of his saber.

"You are not _hoping_ for open conflict," Qui-Gon rebuked his apprentice.

"Of course not, master. I am merely _prepared_. I will seal the hangar blast doors, board the ship, determine that the prisoners are aboard, and instruct the pilot to leave as soon as the secondary generator fails and the maglev barrier falls."

And if I am detained by a need to prevent the prisoners being followed, what will you do?"

Obi-Wan hesitated, seeming to turn the unpleasant syllables over in his mouth before uttering them. "Leave without you," he dutifully replied a moment later. "Although my place is by your side, master."

"Your place is to complete this mission. Master Dooku is waiting just outside the system. He will intercept the Galan yacht. You will report to him on everything we have discovered, and insure that the necessary witnesses are escorted to Coruscant. This has gone far beyond a local sector dispute. A Senate judiciary investigation will doubtless be launched."

"Niik-Al and the others will not be pleased. They think they are going home to Gala."

The Jedi master sighed. "True, but their displeasure is unavoidable. We must act for the greater good."

Obi-Wan exhaled. "Yes, master." He hesitated, then offered the tall man a wry smile laced with unspoken trepidation. "But I still have a very bad feeling about this. I sense that something is going to go wrong."

To his vibrant alarm, Qui-Gon laid a hand upon his shoulder and fixed him with a solemn gaze. "I am sure it will," he conceded. "But we must trust in the Force' s guidance and overcome difficulties as they arise. There is no more specific advice I can give you. Be at peace and keep your focus in the present moment of action, not its uncertain outcome."

They knelt for a moment longer, minds quiet and hearts reaching in tandem for the vital and clarifying currents of the Light, that unfailing and universal power to which they had mutually sworn unwavering allegiance. In its radiance, the fragile web of deceit and possibility vanished into inconsequence, leaving only three: teacher, student, the Force.

It was Qui-Gon who stood first. "It is time," he said. "I must go on my errand, and you, my Prince, have a party to attend."


	15. Chapter 15

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 15

* * *

Prince Beju picked at his food, sculpting textured masses of creamed ocru and stewjonnaise sauce into an elaborate labyrinth upon his gleaming platter, occasionally lifting a delicate forkful of thranctill egg pate to his mouth before interrupting its progress with some loud and imperious indictment of the waiters' skills.

Hiu Merggum watched his royal guest intently, hands folded in saturnine contentment upon his belly, slitted eyes wandering at intervals from the young Galan out over the assembly within the wide dining hall, the high-roofed cavern where his raucous mercenaries glutted themselves upon the peerless feast. Phosphorite chandeliers cast a pale blanket of luminance over the revelry below; the mingled scents of twenty decadent culinary masterpieces and the faint tang of rare vintages upon his tongue wove a soothing enchantment about his senses.

The cook had outdone herself, he reflected, She was well worth her pay, miserly though it might be. Though he would perhaps have preferred his premium Alderaanian table wines have been reserved for some more august and deserving occasion. He tipped a generous serving of the blood-red liquid into Beju's goblet, briefly admiring the limpid depths of crimson swirling in the crystal chalice's bosom.

"A toast," he smiled, raising his own cup.

Everyone seated below the raised dais followed his lead. To his right, Prince Beju politely lifted his own glass into the air, lace cuff spilling over the crisply tailored cuff of his jacket. There were tiny scars here and there on the Prince's knuckles, faint white lines and scratches, the sort of thing one typically saw on men accustomed to hard martial training.

The Weequay often found his attention to detail strangely heightened by the wine. He bestowed a magnanimous smile upon his honored guest. "To the prosperity and security of our new ally, the sovereign system of Gala, and its rightful ruler."

"To Gala." His men wasted no time in saluting the Prince and his realm, draining their cups with a cheerful alacrity and demanding more libations to be poured.

Beju tipped up his own goblet with an indifferent elegance, sampling the ruby liquid as though suspicious of its quality.

"You are rumored to be an aesthete, my Prince, But I assure you, this is a fine vintage."

The Prince set his glass down. "It is passable, I suppose, " he lazily declared.

The Galan protocol droid leaned over its employer's gilt-embroidered shoulder, flicking a stray crumb from the Prince's wide lapel and lowering its audio-synthesizer's volume to a discreet murmur. "It is customary for you to make the next toast, Prince Beju – perhaps some sentiment appropriate to the occasion, such as –"

Beju waved it aside. "Have you nothing better by way of drink?" he petulantly inquired of his host.

Mergumm extended a hand toward a different bottle and poured a small quantity of its contents into another glass. "Your expert opinion, Prince Beju. I am interested to know what such a connoisseur as yourself thinks of this rarity."

Obi Wan cautiously lifted the proffered cup to his lips, allowing the bitter-sweet bouquet to fill his nostrils. A tingling warmth touched his lips, leaving a tantalizing hint of spice. Merggum peered at him, expectant.

He sloshed the wine in its translucent bowl; the Force tautened with warning, conveying the danger inherent in this test, the subtle trap laid before him, but giving no specific answer to the riddle. While Jedi training was extensive, it seldom made foray into the abstruse realms of the vintner's craft.

"Blast it," he breathed, catching the Weequay's subtly sharpened gaze and instantly amending his intended scathing condemnation to a more neutral assessment.. "I've never imbibed anything like it."

The truth was, after all, often the simplest path of deception.

"Really?" the Xolinthi Prime purred. "I am surprised the Nemoidians did not ply you with it during your recent visit to their home world. It is one of the few things they do truly well – and besides, fermented fungus wine is a favorite at the tables of your own court, is it not?"

Too late, the young Jedi realized his mistake. He made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "A concession to the less sophisticated among my flatterers. I would have outlawed the filth long ago, were such thing not beneath my notice… However," he smiled blandly, "It will suffice to make a toast to your Excellency."

Merggum's hackles rose at the implied insult to both his cellars and his person.

"To His Excellency Hiu Merggum of the Xolinthi Mercantile Cooperative." Beju stood and lifted his glass, watching as the motion was echoed down the the long rows of boisterous diners. "May he be richly and justly rewarded for all his efforts to realize our mutual ambitions."

The Prime drank deeply, and waited until the Prince had downed a considerable portion of his own serving before turning his speculative gaze elsewhere.

Beju sank back into his seat, focusing on the toxin-purging techniques in which Qui-Gon had so ruthlessly drilled him at the mission's outset. But, despite his best efforts, the Nemoidian wine still left an unwelcome and sour aftertaste on his tongue.

* * *

With a final exasperated grunt, Qui-Gon shimmied his way out of the claustrophobic maintenance access hatch and into the generator housing chamber proper, gritting his teeth against the nearly unbearable subliminal hum of the huge power plant.

He edged his way onto a connective pipe and prowled forward until be balanced upon a thin intake nozzle, hands sliding over the vibrating outer shield of the rounded generator. His very bones seemed to thrum in unison with the massive column of tritanium and duraplast. At last he found the panel he was seeking. Fingers deftly prying loose the cover and plucking at the connections, he crossed two intakes and tweaked a third.

Nothing happened… yet. Sighing in relief, and glancing down into the inky depths below, the cold bowels of the asteroid from which Merggum's stronghold had been hewn, he backed along the same narrow beam and started the arduous trek back through the access shaft, silently counting the passing minutes until the sabotaged power generator would initiate a self-cooling cycle and shut down, calculating how long he had to get down to the detention level.

He decided to push through the suffocating corridor a bit faster.

* * *

The chandeliers flickered ominously, causing a few heads to look up at the pendant luminaries with furrowed brows. Quite a few other heads were by that time already lolling on the tabletops, or propped against their neighbors, issuing wet snores and throaty, stuporous grumblings.

Hiu Merggum looked out upon his incapacitated vassals, then spared a curious glance at his royal visitor. The Prince leaned back in his seat, one foot propped upon opposite knee, one arm draped casually across the back of an adjacent chair, some inner unrest twisting his features in to a mask of acute discomfort.

"Your cook leaves much to be desired," the young Galan accused his host. "I swear I've been poisoned by these slops you call food."

The Xolinth Prime glowered. "If you have over-indulged, Prince Beju, please take advantage of the lounge alcoves… perhaps Nemoidian wine does not agree with your digestion?"

"Allow me to escort you, Your Royal Highness," the protocol droid offered, extending a polished metal hand. Beju stumbled upright and steadied himself against its gleaming body, nearly toppling both of them off the dais.

The lights flickered once more.

* * *

The detention level guards hit the unyielding stone wall and slumped down, unconscious. Mr. Jinnson gathered their weapons and tossed them at the men staggering and shuffling out of the now deactivated cells.

"Worked like magic, that did, Mr. Jinnson!" Chylld exclaimed when he reached the cell bloc. "Just think! All the power a goin' off at once and the cell barriers just springin' open – it's a mercy the life supports still with us or we'd be in real trouble now. And how you got past them guards just now, I don't want to know. Mercy but you could give a woman the flutters with such a thing., now."

Haggard and gaping, Niik-Al stumbled up to his savior. "You are indeed a man of your word, whoever you are. And my daughter?"

"Is waiting for you." The Jedi master shoved a blaster into the man's hands. "Follow Chylld. She will take you all through the servant's passages to the docking bay. A Galan ship awaits. There is no time to lose."

With a hoarse but heartfelt cheer, Niik-Al and his fellow prisoners set off at the cook's heels, gripping the stolen weapons in shaking hands.

"That's it now, get along, you heard Mr Jinnson as there's no time for dilly-dallying. Move straight this way and make it snappy, that's right, I've got more than a mind to be rid of this place myself now and I ain't missin' the chance on account of any stragglers." The breathless cook hesitated after the last refugee had shuffled into the corridor she indicated. "And you, Mr. Jinnson – why you never cease to amaze, I must say. I wouldn't be a bit to surprised to learn you has a mysterious past you wants to forget."

He abstained from making reply. "There is need of haste," he reminded her, propelling her gently but firmly into the passage behind the escaping captives. He brought up the rear, maintaining a precautionary distance and keeping his senses alert for any sign of trouble or pursuit.

* * *

Beju groaned, flopping inelegantly upon the nearest stuffed sofa. "By the gods," he moaned, "I think I'm dying. You – Fetch a medic. But not a droid – I can't abide things with widgets for brains touching my Royal Person."

Affronted, the droid shuffled to the doorway, then turned, sliding the panel closed and locking it. The lights fluttered and then dimmed.

Beju sat up, glaring at the translator. "I said _fetch help,_ you asinine clown. Are your motivators fused?"

The droid advanced a pace, joints creaking with determination. "Prince Beju of Gala," it addressed him severely. "By signing into existence an oppressive instrument of monopoly and foreign usurpation, you have lost all right to your people's allegiance. You have betrayed us to occupation and loss of self-sovereignty, and you have contracted for the loss of our liberty in a covert fashion, without due regard to the will of the people. Since your disastrous and tyrannical abuse of power cannot be countermanded by peaceful means, I must inform you, on behalf of the people of Gala and the Home Rule party, that you are hereby deposed from your throne."

The Prince stood slowly, brushing lint from his sleeve. "You bore me, droid. There is no constitutional measure for the removal of Gala's rightful monarch by some upstart extremist faction."

"There is still the non-constitutional method," the droid placidly informed him, depressing a hidden button in the center of its torso.

Beju's instant backflip over the hissing projectile that shot from the droid's chest into the sofa's upholstery would have been the subject of stunned adulation had any other audience been present to witness it; as it was, the would-be assassin merely advanced another step, firing off two more toxic darts with grim detachment. Beju managed to catch one of the deadly needles with a throw pillow, flicking the satin cushion into the dart's path even as he twisted away from the third and simultaneously spun to deliver a smashing roundhouse kick to the droid's face.

Decapitated, the things' body continued to advance, pummeling the walls and furniture with its remaining ammunition. The Prince's eyes narrowed, focusing on the severed head which now let off the telltale whining bleep of an activated time-release ion grenade about to blow.

"Freedom for Gala!" the translator's vocabulator screeched in a gravelly baritone, the increased shrilling of the bomb drowning out the final words. The lights hiccupped, spluttered, and died.

Beju called upon the Force and flung himself through the doorway, a split-second ahead of the explosion.

* * *

They poured into the docking hangar just as the life support warning claxons sounded. Qui-Gon's mouth tightened; the effects of his tampering with the generator would not last more than a few more minutes. They must maximize what distraction they still had.

"Go!" he urged the fleeing prisoners, pointing them toward the open boarding ramp of the Galan yacht. The drives were primed and ready; Magg Zurl stood at the head of the ramp, awaiting orders. His eyes widened as the ragged band of escapees filed past him into the ship's belly, and widened further at the apparition of Chylld in her apron and long skirts, heaving a battered antique travel-case with her, but the guardsman dared make no objection.

There were no Xolinthi posted in the hangar, all personnel having been summoned to handle the emergent crisis. Qui-Gon jogged up the ramp last, reaching for Obi-Wan through the Force.

"Mr. Jinnson, sir," Zurl saluted him.

The tall man peered across the wide bay, seeking for his apprentice's approach. Nothing.

"We are prepared for departure, sir, upon the Prince's arrival," Zurl assured him.

Nothing. The tall man's nape hairs rose. "Close the ramp," he instructed. "When the maglev barrier drops, you must leave. Fly straight to Gala as His Highness instructed."

The security officer hesitated. Qui-Gon's brows drew together. Still no sign of his Padawan. The Force was abroil with disturbance, the manifold panic and befuddlement of the Xolinthi, their disorganized attempts to avert the false generator melt-down, their fear and confusion swirling muddily in the ethereal currents. He could barely make out his student's presence amid the chaos.. and then -

"Go," he barked, leaping form the ramp onto the decks below, pulse hammering in his ears, adrenaline cascading like ice down spine and through his belly.

_Something will go wrong, master._

"But –" Zurl protested.

"Obey His Highness' orders!" Jinnson ground out, breaking into a jog. "Or the consequences will be dire!"

"Yes, sir." The Galan obeyed with brusque efficiency, sealing the ramp. A few seconds later the yacht rose on repulsors, hovering a meter off the decks, facing the sparking and stuttering maglev field that barred its exit. Sirens wailed and lights died; Qui-Gon slid beneath the emergency airlock door as it slammed into place, anticipating the atmospheric failure inside the bay.

The passage beyond was pitch black, the Force roaring with sudden fire.

_Obi-Wan!_

He sprinted down the echoing hall, heart outracing his flying feet.

* * *

Vibrant fire and spinning chunks of masonry collided with walls and floor; the shock wave slammed Prince Beju into the marble floor, buffeting breath from his body and rippling a hot gust of wrath over his back. Screams and smoke filed the darkness; amid the chaos, he struggled to his feet clutching at an overturned table for support, his ears ringing with the blast. He almost stumbled on a twist of limbs, whether alive or dead he could not guess.

His mind reeling with the explosion, he turned in place, striating flecks of light smearing his vision, the Force sounding an invisible alarm on all sides. He choked on the settling debris, and made for the exit, or where he knew the exit to be, coming up hard against another obstacle and cursing himself for his lack of mindfulness.

A piercing light shone in his face. A lantern-beam. Faces. Smoke. The roaring tide of his blood, of danger. Memory fell into place: droid, assassin, darts, bomb, near escape. Xolinthi. Prisoners. Qui-Gon, the ship, the plan, the rendezvous. He had to get out.

"Prince Beju," a familiar voice grated. Purple and yellow afterimages still floated before his eyes. He squinted, but the Xolinth Prime's face would not come into focus. The others shone lights in his face. Hard hands were on his shoulders, weapons thrust rudely in his general direction.

"What is the meaning of this, Merggum?' he demanded, "My own protocol droid has just attempted to assassinate me."

"I must remember to thank the Home Rule Party on Gala for their boldness," the Xolinth rumbled. "Or else, I think, you would have escaped, am I not right?"

"I don't know what you are –"

"Enough." Mergumm stepped closer, the flash of his sharpened teeth visible in his guards' wavering lantern-beams. "You have betrayed yourself, my friend. It has been a fascinating game… but I think I grow _bored_ with your little deception."

The Prince gathered himself, the Force radiating from its invisible center, sudden warmth flooding his body, thrilling in his veins, vast power compressed within his deep and trembling inhalation…

"Take him down," the Weequay commanded.

Obi-Wan released a guttural cry, the Force exploding outward with his breath, sending his foes flying in all directions, slamming into walls and toppled furnishings. His hand closed around his 'saber's hilt, the gleaming weapon flashing out of concealment, into burning sapphire brilliance, a blue tongue spitting defiance at the ring of foes, cutting through the shadows, casting light over his gathered enemies.

Merggum and two score of his special commandos stood ranked about him, faces contorted with rage as they recognized the Jedi's weapon and its meaning.

He flourished his 'saber in a flamboyant triple helix, the plasma blade howling high and wild as he sank into the Force, into the moment of reckoning, into certain defeat. And he grinned, taunting ravenous death even as it leered upon him from twenty pairs of glittering eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 16

* * *

Klaxons shook the stronghold's bones with a shrill crescendo of rising alarm, dozens of sirens prophesying false doom as the power core cycled through a temporary feedback loop. Qui-Gon pelted headlong through the vibrating corridors, his own nerves tuned to the same hysterical pitch by the Force's strident invisible warning. Though the generator meltdown was a deception, a falsehood of his own cunning creation, the danger to his Padawan was all too present and real.

He reached for the boy across their training bond. _Obi-Wan!_

But he received no coherent response. Untamed images and emotions surged across the permeable mental barriers between master and apprentice: shock, fear, defiance – a severed droid's head, spouts of fire, a spinning hailstorm of stone and grit, Merggum's pointed teeth, a saber's thrumming blade, leering empty visages, exotic blaster weaponry, and speed speed speed the color of blue lightning, the Force a roaring typhoon, the air ablaze with burning darts, fiery destruction –

Qui-Gon rounded a corner and took a flight of steps in one bound. _Focus! _ He impressed upon his desperately embattled student. _Stay centered! I'm coming!_

A dizzying tide of relief crashed against his shields, and then a second wave, dark with doubt and alarm, a panic-fractured image of the Galan yacht swirling muddily in the Force, question and accusation at once.

But it was too late for that now. The ship had already left, seizing its one narrow hope of freedom. _Focus! _He commanded again, praying that his sheer habitual authority would outweigh all clamoring distraction. _The present moment! Keep fighting!_

The Jedi master skidded to a halt along the last stretch of corridor, his way barred by heavy blast shields, security measures cutting off all access to the central hall. His saber's green blade hissed out of its hilt, squealing hideously as it plunged a full meter deep into triple-forged durasteel. Sparks and slag erupted from the molten wound, super-heated metal bubbling over onto the deck. Long seconds dragged by as he carved his way through the ponderous barrier, jaw clenched tight and broad shoulders straining with effort.

_Master!_ Obi-Wan's soundless cry of horror pierced his mind, clarion-clear and laced with more blood-bright images: a severed arm, a pair of legs sheared off at the knees, a chestplate punctured by a line of sapphire flame, the twisted death's-head grimace of a dying man, the hot effluvia of the plasma blade, mangled weapons, sprawling bodies, howling screaming pain pain death destruction, _carnage –_

Qui-Gon smashed the melting, crumbling panel inward with the Force, leaping through the ragged, molten-edged aperture in one fluid motion.

_Obi-Wan!_ There was not time for scruples. He overstepped all bounds, pressing against his Padawan's mind until the distinction between them warped and yielded, attenuated to nothing by the need of one and the skill of the other, until master, student, the Force were fused into an ephemeral unity. And for one timeless heartbeat, Qui-Gon _was_ the Living Force, the center of the universe, his own center, Obi-Wan's center, anchor and bridge and immovable foundation, driving all thought and feeling from the young Jedi's mind on a scouring wind of Light, leaving only the limitless now, only the Force flooding endlessly through one hopelessly cornered boy, staving off destruction by an infinite hairsbreadth, weaving impossible ceaseless defense against legions of ravening foes.

In the next instant, Qui-Gon was again merely himself, and he was at the terminus of the passage, sliding to a halt against a curved upper-level balustrade, free hand gripping hard about the rail as he peered down upon the heart-stopping spectacle below. The great hall stood in blackened disarray, one wall shattered to rubble and dust, furniture strewn upon the floor, bodies slumped and tumbled in heaps where they lay, foodstuffs smeared underfoot, wine spilled like generous blood upon the flagstones. Against the far wall a lonely beacon of blue fire spun and screamed, warding off a crushing press of assailants. The grey-clad soldiers moved in a strange synchrony, a mob of dozens augmented as he watched by more and more reinforcements pouring in from side entrances. Blaster bolts winged in droves toward their solitary target, some missing, others rebounding into the ranks of snarling troops. At the apex of this pitched battle stood Obi-Wan, visible only as a blur of motion behind the blinding sphere of light carved by his 'saber. A ring of felled enemies lay at his feet, grisly testament to his skill, the occasion of his bottomless horror. The Force gathered about him, a churning vortex of Light repelling all assault; but it was a flickering storm, one that would soon be spent.

Deep in the Force, drowning in the battle, the Padawan perhaps did not even sense Qui-Gon's presence in the balcony. The tall man's eyes flicked over the burgeoning army, its Weequay commander. His hand curled tight about his weapon's hilt, a cold sweat slicking the grips beneath his fingers.

There were too many – far, far too many even for two Jedi. They would lose this fight.

_Master! …Qui-Gon! _ He felt rather than saw Obi-Wan's footing slip, the minute faltering in his defensive rhythm, the bolt that grazed past his ear close enough to leave a stinging burn.

Qui-Goon reached into the tumultuous Force, into the frenetically torrent of power, and yanked the phosphorite chandelier free of its mooring. Chain ripped loose from masonry, crystal and welded setting plummeted downward, hurtling straight into the foremost cluster of men surrounding the young Jedi. The massive lamp impacted with a thunderous crash, and a supernova flare of toxic phosphorite. Splinters and shards clattered into walls, pierced flesh, disintegrated against the 'saber's blade. The Force echoed with deafening anguish, wild confusion.

Panting, almost stumbling, the Padawan slewed to one side, throwing himself toward the nearest exit, wrenching the doors open with a fierce wave of his hand. He deflected two more shots aimed at his back, a bit sloppily, and jumped clear over a third. Some keen marksman in the Xolinthi ranks shot out the door controls, sending the sliding panel crashing down again. Obi-Wan dropped and rolled beneath the descending slab without a centimeter to spare, the hem of Beju's ornate coat disappearing through the gap in a wink of burgundy synthsilk and gilt thread.

* * *

The door nearly crushed his ankle.

Obi-Wan rolled over a dozen times, his momentum carrying him halfway down the passageway before he sprang to his feet. There was no obscenity in his extensive private arsenal at all proportionate to his current situation, so he settled for ripping Beju's cumbersome jacket from his shoulders and flinging it aside with a guttural snort of disgust. The idiotic "formal dress" shoes came off next, followed by their matching silk stockings, and then he was away down the corridor, bare feet slapping on the hard plastoid decking material as he sped through Merggum's maze-like stronghold at the prompting of sheerest instinct.

Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon was here.. somewhere. He needed Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon would know what to do, how to…

The image of the men who had already fallen to his blade swam before his vision, the awful scent of burnt flesh clotting his senses, rising on a turgid flood of memory. Twenty, thirty, forty..how many had there been? How many more would there be? _Size matters not, numbers matter not…._ He chanted the familiar platitude to himself as he sprinted through another corridor, up stairs, along a side passage.

Where was Qui-Gon? Was this the right way?

Footsteps pounded toward him from the right. He veered around, took a different turning.

_Master!_

A heavy double blast shield barricaded his progress. The sound of boots tramping inexorably closer…. He heaved in a breath. Focus, focus. The roof over his head was a bland and seamless stretch of rock. No openings to either side, no floor panels, no storage nooks, nothing. Breathe – there is always a solution.

A dull thud on the other side of the door. A sharp spike of mingled relief and chagrin across his shared bond with the Jedi master – Qui-Gon was on the other side of the blast panels.

The footsteps grew closer. There was no time.

_Go, Obi-Wan! Now!_

With a strangled cry, he turned away from the dead end, pelting back down the hallway, toward the marching feet. He sped for the nearest intersection, passed the adjacent corridor, flung himself across its threshold just as the first men poured into the passage, firing as they ran. Bolts skittered and ricocheted off polished surfaces, zinged erratically down the narrow hall. Obi-Wan ran, rolled through another door, leapt over solid objects – crates? Storage boxes? Shipping palettes? -and sprinted for an exit at the far end. Something sailed by his head, and he made a wild leap for safety, twisting wildly in mid-air to avoid the grenades' blast.

His body hit the hard floor; the shock wave threw him another meter into the nearest plastoid container; the subsequent gout of fire and grit pummeled him with needling hail. Another round object arced overhead; he caught it with the Force and sent it back at whomever had launched it – another blast shook the air, bringing down part of the roof and some support beams. Dust rose in a thick blanket, veiling the next wave of attackers in grey mist. Blaster bolts flew wildly across the space, random volleys thrown in his general direction. Merggum's dark silhouette appeared among the blurring shapes.

"Surrender!" the Xolinth prime bellowed, amidst the smoke and din.

Surrender? He would rather die. The blue saber howled in rebellion, carving straight through the nearest crate, scattering its tiny, clinking contents over his boots.

Credit chits,. Aurodium. Money.

"Stand down!" the enraged Weequay roared, more and more shapes taking form in the choking dust clouds behind him.

"No!" The Force burned like fire in every muscle, every cell, unbearable light. He fisted his hands, the piles of spilled plunder rising upward, glittering. He gathered the light, igniting its volatile power with his indrawn breath "Uuungh!" His vision swam; the treasure exploded in an unparalleled hurricane, outward in every direction, sharp edges slicing and pummeling like thousand-fold flechettes, the Xolinthi overlord collapsing beneath the deadly onslaught of his own ill-gained profits.

Obi-Wan barked with laughter, the cold sweet irony making his heart leap, and dashed for the door again, for the ever-narrowing window of escape.

* * *

Qui-Gon's path wound through the bowels of the stronghold, through narrow passage and empty hall, the Force like liquid fire beneath his pulse. There was no escape, for the asteroid hung pendant in utter vacuum, merciless space; there was no victory against such a legion of foes. And yet he could not surrender to his fate. Not when his apprentice was so young, so full of potential, so full of life. They had years yet to study, to train, to work, to learn…. His heart rebelled against the turn of fate which had brought them to this impasse.

_Obi-Wan!_ Again and again he called to the boy across their bond, each time sensing the Padawan's whereabouts but unable to reach him in physical space. Merggum's fortress was in full lock-down, the re-powering generator now activating automatic security doors and sizzling laser barriers. More than once the Jedi master had narrowly avoided entrapment in a motion-sensitive ray-shield. He felt Obi-Wan's wild chase through the same passages, his skittering, instinctive evasion of the hunters, of the traps, his aimless impulsive changes of direction, wild intuitive guesses at his location.

They were in trouble. _Padawan! The hangar bay! Meggum's shuttle!_

It was no plan at all- nothing more than a desperate last stand, a rendezvous with death. The hangar would be rife with guards, and offered no path of retreat. And yet, facing extinction with such cold certainty, he knew that it must be together. He could at least offer his apprentice that bare comfort: when they fell, it would be side by side, sabers raised in unity. He would not abandon the boy to a lonely and inglorious end, without the support of another Jedi. They would expire in tandem, a star and its satellite, returning to the Force without fear and without regret.

Though – for Obi-Wan's sake – he might have asked for just a little more time. There was so much yet to teach…

_Master!_ Pain seared across the bond, but the Padawan's bright beacon did not expire; the injury was mild, or masked by sheer adrenaline. A chorus of dark emotions: despair, anger, sorrow, confusion. Then a swift drop- a gut lurching twist, but whether of surprise or due to an actual descent, Qui-Gon could not say. Then a renewed flare of triumph and hope, and a sense of need, of longing, of raw and unabashed love, trust –

He ran. They were almost there. It was the end – but they would be together, and somehow, somehow, this was the will of the Force. He must accept, he must show the right path, the right way, the path of wisdom and peace even in the face of death.

And yet he was still the maverick, pleading with the Force for quarter, for a last moment reprieve. A solution. A solution will present itself. It had to – it always did. If not for him, then at least for the boy. He ran, footsteps and thundering heartbeat blending into a single desperate prayer, an old fool begging pardon for his sins, forgiveness for his transgressions, mercy for the youngest of his lineage.

* * *

The tramp of pitiless feet drove him onward, faster and farther, beneath slamming doors, through ducts and down a lift shaft in a sickening dive. The hangar bay was here – no there – to the left- up, around this corner, and straight ahead. Obi-Wan ran flat out, knowing that he sprinted only toward his own death, for Merggum surely would have every point of escape well-guarded.

But Qui-Gon would be there.

They would die together, and this was all that mattered because amidst the surreal chaos of the ambush, the whirl of battle and devastation unfolding on all sides, he harbored one unyielding certainty: he would die as a Jedi, and not as the repulsive and selfish Beju. He would die saber raised, face to the Light, and – he secretly hoped – shielding Qui-Gon from harm with his very body, his last breath.

That was how a Padawan should face death. It was right. It was _traditional._

The bay doors hung wide, a gaping maw inviting him in. Danger shimmered in the Force, a hot miasma emanating from the Xolinthi's collective hatred. He plunged into it, fearless, careless of safety. Qui-Gon was there, inside, somewhere. He could feel the Jedi master's presence like a blast of cool sweet wind, a geyser springing from deep within the Force's cavern depths, his home and his anchor.

Heart in his throat, he rolled and dove through a wall of blaster fire, 'saber singing its siren song, catching every bolt, howling like a wild thranctill on the updraft of his last strength. There were scores…a hundred.. so many foes he could not count them. Merggum was here too, hands shoved in his belt, face leering in satisfaction, in grim anticipation.

_Master!_ Where was Qui-Gon? Why wasn't he coming? This was their last stand, the moment of reckoning, the final battle, and he was here…

Merggum called for the soldiers to cease fire. The throng drew closer, closing in about him, death creeping, prowling about the edges of his awareness, a cold hand on his spine, the Force roaring in his ears. He inhaled. Light. The Light. Where was Qui-Gon? Why wasn't he here?

_Master!_ He raised his saber, blade pointing upward, its heart thrumming undefeated, unbent, unafraid. The moment had come. Countless rifle barrels were leveled, countless eyes narrowed in determination, the Force roiling with imminent thunder.

And then – Qui-Gon! At last!

The Jedi master appeared as though from thin air, behind Merggum - just there - still clad in Jinnson's livery but shining in the Force like a scintillating star, like a majestic sunset.

For an eternal moment, their eyes locked. The Force surged high, a tidal wave cresting. The tall man raised one of the fallen soldier's weapons –

-and fired a single shot.

Shocked beyond comprehension, Obi-Wan did not even attempt to deflect the blast.

The stun bolt hit him square in the chest, shattering his world to a dissonant cacophony of black fire and betrayal. His saber hit the deck a moment before his body… and then there was nothing.


	17. Chapter 17

**Lineage VI**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

* * *

As one, the Xolinthi special taskforce trained their custom-make weapons upon the newcomer, scores of oddly expressionless faces waiting upon their leader's command.

Qui-Gon lowered his stolen blaster, free hand held outward pacifically, relaxed posture conveying none of his inner turmoil, the blank horror at his own actions, the instinct-driven moment of decision in which he had bought precious seconds, or minutes, or hours of life for his apprentice with a simple act of betrayal. If they survived this, that moment would loom obscenely between them, neither simple nor easy to forgive. Obi-Wan's disbelieving shock still echoed hollowly in the Force, blending with the stunned silence of the Xolinthi, a blanket of hesitance smothering the whole armed assembly.

"Mr. Jinnson," Merggum finally rasped out. "…If that is your name. This is most… unexpected."

It was indeed. Obi-Wan lay unmoving, limbs awkwardly twisted, the saber's hilt a few inches from his slack fingers, Beju's luxuriant hair spilled upon the deck in a cascade of stark and awful contrasts: soft upon hard, mahogany upon alabaster, falsehood gently coiled against bitter fact and truth. The Jedi master inhaled deeply, making no reply.

He permitted a half-dozen of the Weequay's men to make a rough inventory of his person, their hands searching him for hidden weapons or comm. devices, with no result; his saber was safely tucked between two fuel cells near Merggum's private shuttle. The guards relieved him of the borrowed rifle and stepped back, covering him with their blasters - though he would be worse than a fool to make any aggressive move when outnumbered a hundred to one.

The Xolinth Prime's calculating gaze flitted toward the unconscious Padawan and then back to the royal valet. "Prince Beju has enemies in more than one place, it would seem."

Qui-Gon lifted his shoulders nonchalantly. "As do you. As do I. As does any man worth the name. This, however, is not Beju but an imposter. "

"A Jedi," Merggum hissed, spitting out the word as though he expelled a piece of filth from his mouth. His tongue ran along the ridges of his teeth distastefully. "I suspected him from the beginning. He refused my most charming courtesan, thought ill of my wine, looked askance at my fighting akks, flinched at the just punishment of prisoners, and was far, far too intelligent to be that idiot Beju. But I wondered whether he was planted by the Nemoidians, the Home Rule Party, or my own local resistance."

The tall man smiled coldly. "You have attracted the notice of the Republic," he sneered. "Your troubles are far from over."

The Weequay snarled, closing the gap between them in one stride. "I could kill both the spy and you, stranger. You are equally deceivers and trespassers." He raised a fist, and his troops trained weapons on both the valet and the fallen youth in the hangar's center.

Qui-Gon's throat went dry. He could not watch his Padawan shot in cold blood. The Force rose like a consuming fire, vast protective fury battling for release… but his dams held, barely. "You could," he agreed, indifferently. "But ," – exerting the utmost mind influence – "You would do better to wait. I am not your enemy but your ally. And the Jedi – he might be more useful alive, for now."

Merggum's cunning mind did not succumb entirely, but the suggestion penetrated far enough to break a chink in his armor. He hesitated, baring sharpened teeth in an aggravated scowl, pacing a slow circle about his captive. "I trust neither of you," he decided. "And I have much to do." He gestured to the guards surrounding Qui-Gon. A tight press of bodies closed in about the Jedi master, weapons bristling. "Take him to my private office and watch him carefully. If he does anything but sit and wait my return, kill him immediately."

He turned to the stony-faced commandos standing guard over the fallen Padawan. "You. Take the imposter to the detention level. Use the high-security cell, and energy binders. And a double dose of XC-4." His eyes raked contemptuously over the boy's limp body. "I don't want him getting out of hand again."

Qui-Gon's gut twisted as three of the foremost soldiers dragged Obi-Wan off between them, none too gently. Images of what incapacitating treatment the helpless Padawan might receive at their hands swam before his inner eye, igniting his smoldering fury to renewed vibrancy. He breathed in, out. Escape, already the thinnest of possibilities, narrowed to the probability of an outright miracle.

But the Force was with him. He had to believe this was true; and so he did. The future was in motion, the present moment his to shape. As the crowd of armed escorts closed in and hustled him away down a corridor, away from his apprentice and toward uncertain fate, he centered himself in this one reality. He _would_ find a way out.

* * *

It took Hiu Merggum hours to return to his private office. The commando squad – a full dozen assigned specifically to watch over Jinnson – stood at rigid attention, eyes never leaving the Xolinth Prime's unusual guest, faces never betraying a flicker of emotion or thought. Qui-Gon, judging it best not to kneel in meditation posture, merely lounged in the Prime's comfortable chair and closed his eyes, sinking deep into the Force's currents, emptying his mind of anything but limpid receptivity, and only occasionally attempting to touch his apprentice through their bond. Such efforts yielded no result, and he soon quit the vain exercise.

When the hulking Weequay finally reappeared, he sent his men into the adjacent corridor with a flick of one hand. "If he sets foot outside this door without me, kill him."

Qui-Gon nodded, relinquishing the Weequay's chair with a short bow. "You are too gracious."

Merggum settled in the comfortable seat, eyes tracking the tall man as he leaned with casual insouciance against the far wall. "Now, then. Your name, perhaps?"

"Jinnson." A mirthless smile.

The Xolinth Prime grunted. "And who are you, pray tell?"

"An independent contractor," Qui-Gon replied. "Though I am ..familiar with the one to whom you answer."

A rippling eddy of fear in the Force. Interesting. "Indeed?" But the Weequay did not succeed in masking his unease.

"Yes." Qui Gon pushed off the wall and paced contemplatively across the thick carpet. "I wonder what pay-off I might get from him for a Jedi."

Merggum's spine stiffened. "The Jedi is _my_ prisoner, I might remind you. You are a dead man unless you answer my questions."

Jinnson picked up a curio statuette and turned it over in his hands. "Handsome," he murmured. "You display a lamentably cavalier attitude about your Jedi problem. One does not simply capture a single Jedi. They run in packs – a swarm, you might say. The one you have in custody is quite unseasoned – a mere youngling. Be assured, there are others lurking nearby. You must tread carefully, Merggum. Believe me in this – I am very familiar with the Jedi and their ways. I think of it as a… specialization. An area of expertise. I would of course, be willing to help you…. If we were allies. For a share of profits and honors."

The Weequay snorted. "I could torture such information out of you."

The Jedi master set the small carven object down, adjusting its angle upon the gleaming tabletop. "I doubt it." He turned, locking eyes with his host. "You would do better to accept my offer of friendship. Republic interference is the last thing you and your cause need at this point in time, am I not right?"

There was a long silence, in which the Xolinth Prime took his opponent's measure, subtly grinding his teeth in chagrin. The Force shimmered delicately with agitation, greed and suspicion and a trickle of worry intermingled. Merggum wavered between trust and distrust.

"And what, my _friend,_ do you suggest we do with this Jedi?"

Jinnson paused, then leaned boldly over the desktop, lowering his voice to a whisper. "We should take the prisoner to see _him._ Hiding the problem would be unwise. And _he_ may be lenient when he learns that you captured the spy before the situation worsened. I merely ask for my share of credit."

At the mention of his unknown but clearly intimidating superior, Merggum's lined face blanched and crumpled. "I have served our cause with great faithfulness," he muttered.

"As I have observed. Your special forces are most impressive – indeed, your Cooperative is a monument to skill and competency. I should like to learn more of this _cause_. I am not without talents to contribute."

The offer did not tip the scales, but it arrested their teetering motion at the exact fulcrum moment of judgment. Merggum considered him closely, eyes narrowed, the Force bright with warning: one false step and both master and apprentice would fall over the edge into oblivion, their fates hanging by the thread of Meggum's pleasure. Qui-Gon held his breath.

Slowly, the Weequay rose, a sickly wave of malice rolling off his broad form. "I shall consider your words, _friend."_ He moved toward the exit, one arm extended in invitation. "Let us visit this Jedi together first. If you are an ally to the Cooperative and our greater cause, then I am sure you hate the Republic and its vile minions as much as I do."

The invitation was thin disguise for a test of loyalty; Qui-Gon nodded gravely, heart sinking at what lay ahead, and followed the conniving Director out the door.

* * *

Obi-Wan rolled over and found himself face-to-face with a scuffed and stained decking material. It smelled of stale plastoid and some unspeakable sourness that immediately turned his stomach.

Grunting, he shifted again, and instantly regretted it. His vision shattered into six separate images, each one featuring a blurred field of red at its periphery. A spike pounded through his temples as he sought to reconcile the drifting images with reality.

"Ugh." He struggled into a kneeling position, annoyed by the discovery that his arms were pinioned behind him by energy cuffs, and that his balance was severely off-kilter. His head was throbbing fit to burst, too. He exhaled shakily, attempting to find his center.

It shifted away, just beyond his grasp, clouds of toxic _sludge_ dulling his senses, thickening his blood. He could _feel_ it. "Focus," he chided himself. He knew what to do, but he could not remember, could not bring the aimless wandering of his attention back to one point. His knee felt damp, and he squinted downward, noting that the decks were smeared with a bilious pool of vomit. His innards flipped in protest, and he wrenched his attention away, only dimly reasoning that this unsavory spectacle must be one of his own making.

A pair of dark shadows appeared behind the smearing red, and he blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision. A snapping noise, sudden dizziness as the crimson blur disappeared, and a rush of warmth as fresh air and a pair of bodies entered the confines of his cell. Memory stirred, leaving further ripples of confusion in its wake.

_Shots. A mob of enemies. Running. The hangar bay. Qui-Gon coming, coming to the rescue…. And then…_

Hiu Mergumm's voice sounded in the small chamber, echoing off the smooth walls and splitting into meaningless cacophony. There was somebody else with him, too. The second figure knelt before him, and a hand seized his chin, though not too roughly.

"Not so high and mighty now," a familiar voice growled, though the rough syllables were softened by an invisible mental probe, a gentle touch skimming across his battered senses, seeming to slip beneath his awareness with the ease of long habit.

Obi-Wan sucked in a sharp breath, sudden clarity dispelling his stupor._ Qui Gon. Merggum. The fight. The….stun bolt. _A guttural cry of outrage welled up in his throat, and he drew backward, but to no avail. The hand merely tightened its grip, holding him in place. He heaved in another deep breath, blinking and straining to focus, to hold his wildly bucking emotions in control.

"I don't recognize this one," Qui-Gon said. "But _he_ will be eager to interrogate this Republic spy." The hand brushed over the Padawan's cheek as it released its grip, and a welcome influx of Light seemed to fill the cell, righting the prisoner's disrupted senses for the briefest moment.. Sounds and colors coalesced into recognizable patterns, and then fell back into turgid disarray.

_Trust me, _ the Jedi master's voice urged him, wordlessly, the plea echoing in his groggy mind. _Follow my lead._

Emotion raised a defiant banner within him; bright strands of outrage and confusion erupting among the shattered detritus of sensation. Trust the man who had _turned _ on him in a life and death fight? Who had _shot him down_ in cold blood? But the long shadow of discipline, of vital intuitive connection, rose above this hot-blooded objection. He frowned, fighting a new wave of nausea, watching both the Xolinth and the Jedi master warily.

Qui-Gon had turned his back. "I suggest we transport him as soon as possible. Jedi are well known for impossible escapes."

That wasn't right… something was so wrong here, it made him dizzy. _Master! Master what are you doing? What is happening?_

A bittersweet apology shimmered in the Force like a lovely moth, a beautiful floating thing hiding a secret venom. His breath came faster, bile rising in his throat.

Mergumm's voice was a rasping shiv's edge. "I have a score to settle with this filth, first. Indeed, perhaps it is you who should exact payment from this false Prince. It is not every day that we have a Jedi in our grasp, now is it?"

There was a sudden lurching drop – or maybe that was the Force again. Obi-Wan keeled halfway over, sick with the abrupt influx of horror and revulsion seeping across the training bond. He reached for Qui-Gon, scrambling to find his balance, his center in the tempest, but the Jedi gently rebuffed him. _Be brave. Trust me. _ He choked back a cry of frustration, squinting up at the blurred silhouette of his teacher, incomprehension pounding behind his temples with every heartbeat.

And then Qui-Gon chuckled, a cold and malicious laugh not his own. "Very well."

Obi-Wan found his voice, a torrent of anguish spilling over into sound. "You traitor! _Traitor! _ You –you- misbegotten son of a _Sith-whore_!"

"Shut up," Merggum hissed. Something hard impacted with his cheek, sending him sprawling backward against the deck. His headache exploded into a numbing agony, and he panted hard, riding the blinding wave of pain as it roared high over sight and hearing, blotting out reality.

He was vaguely aware of the tall man looming over him, neither threatening nor comforting. Groaning, he thrust fiercely against the Jedi master's mental shields, desperate to breach the terrifying chasm that had opened between them, to _wrest_ the older man back into his proper role. But his attempts were gently foiled, only a trickle of insufficient comfort sent to sustain him. Qui-Gon thrust a hand behind his head and twisted his fingers in the false Prince's hair, jerking his chin upward. "Your manners need improvement," he breathed in the young man's ear. _Trust me,_ he again sent across their bond. _I am sorry, young one. This is the only way._

The Xolinth Prime barked curt orders to the Weequay guards in the corridor outside, and in the next moment the Padawan found himself jerked to his feet and thrust face first against the far wall. His wrists were roughly unbound, his already burned and torn shirt ripped off his back, and his arms then yanked high above his head, only to be clamped into place against the stone surface. He gritted his teeth as his muscles protested the strain, and turned his face over one shoulder with some difficulty.

_Master?_ _What are we doing?_ _Master!_

Qui Gon's wordless answer was laced with terrible regret. _Securing Merggum's trust. Be strong._

The young Jedi's gut twisted treacherously, despite his effort at control. The cold stone wall radiated an icy despair through skin and bone, ratcheting his breath into frantic rhythm. What was happening? Why? His mind spun and skirled, storm tossed by panic and confusion.

"Well, my friend?" the Weequay overlord asked. "If I did not know better, I would suspect of you of feeling pity for this Jedi filth. You are not a secret sympathizer of the corrupt Republic, are you?"

The Jedi master made a disdainful noise. "Give me the whip," he said, flatly. "I will show this wretch what treatment spies and traitors deserve."

Obi-Wan's heart skipped a beat.. _Focus, calm, focus, calm,_ he recited to himself, but the mantra was a hollow whisper in his reeling mind, one not equal to the task. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold stone of the wall, reaching in despair for Qui-Gon's reassuring presence.

_Oh, my Padawan, _came the gentle sigh within the Force. _Forgive me._

"You do realize what your mistake was?" the Xolinth Prime sneered.

A spark of fire fluttered in the guttering wind of the young Jedi's resolve."Throwing money around?" he inquired, a smile tugging at his mouth, despite his acute perturbation.

"You impudent _wretch,"_ the Weequay snarled. "You will _pay_ for your sharp tongue."

"You bore me," the Padawan drawled, though his pulse outraced even his dark wit.

And then the first blow fell, excoriating fire ripping a line of pain across his bare back, calling forth an involuntary gasp and a clenching of his muscles as the impact was doubled by the electric jolt.

"Good," Merggum smiled.

A second strike burned across the prisoner's shoulder blades, and then another snapped agonizingly at the base of his spine. He stifled his shouts, fingers clawing at the wall's surface, heart pounding wildly in protest. Pain rippled and shuddered through his limbs, tightening overwrought muscles.

Qui-Gon did not show mercy. Strike upon strike showered down, expertly placed, relentless. Merggum's amusement coiled sickeningly about him, an invisible stench.

_Master!_ The silent plea was met with adamantine shields, an invisible wall forbidding entry, burying thought and emotion behind a blank and pitiless mask.

"Make him scream," the Weequay advised, vindictive pleasure seeping like toxin in the fire-fretted Force.

The electro-whip's burning tongue inscribed a raw and blazing calligraphy across its victim's back, every blow delivered with equal power and accuracy, strikes grazing along ribs, along his spine, his neck, backside, thighs, until the burning welts seeped together into a single molten agony. Obi-Wan clenched his jaw tightly, moaning his distress into the unforgiving Force, sweat slicked limbs shaking violently, heart constricted into an aching point of betrayal..

The torture ceased – for a moment – and his hands were released, his weight slumping helplessly in the grip of two Weequay guards. He raised his head a trembling few inches to meet Qui-Gon's gaze; but the tall man merely stood, white-faced, his eyes empty of their customary light, expression hardened and veiled. Merggum seized the electrowhip from his slackening grip and brandished it before the Padawan's eyes.

"I said, make him _scream." _The Xolinth Prime gritted out, hefting the weapon's handle with a menacing leer. His guardsmen jerked the prisoner upright.

"Jedi scum," Merggum spat, flicking his wrist in a single lightning motion, sending the whip's sizzling comet-tail snapping across his prisoner's groin.

The Padawan finally screamed aloud, dropping to the unyielding floor in a convulsive knot of pain. The Jedi master's face blanched even further, though his expression remained totally immobile; the Xolinth Prime threw his head back and guffawed heartily.

"Tell me…" he asked his suffering captive, "Are you still _bored_?"

He had the satisfaction of receiving no reply at all. "Come my friend," he said to his new ally. "We must discuss business, I think." With these words, Merggum turned on his heel and swept out, drawing the impassive guards and Qui-Gon in his wake. The tall Jedi stalked past his apprentice without a backward glance, Force presence furled so tightly inward that he may as well not have existed.

The red energy barrier sprang back into place behind them, leaving the young Jedi curled in a miserable ball, sick with bright and flaring injury, bitterly ashamed of the tears that leaked past his broken guard - though only the pitiless Force stood witness.


	18. Chapter 18

**Lineage VI**

* * *

**Chapter 18**

* * *

Time lay stagnant, pooled and motionless along the ravaged banks of awareness; space contracted to nothing more than a bland stretch of white plastoid, a meter's-length of dull decking material and the dim 'cycled air above it. The single inhabitant of this reclusive universe, a melancholic island of existence in which pain and confusion swirled murkily together, pushed up on hands and knees at the sound of footsteps approaching.

Shadows darkened the red haze of the barrier, rippling as they moved closer. Obi-Wan managed to attain his feet, and braced them in defensive opening stance, throwing back his bruised and aching shoulders and lifting his chin to face whatever came with some semblance of Jedi dignity.

The energy field snapped into nothingness, revealing Hiu Merggum and another handful of his now ubiquitous commando troops. The young Jedi's gaze swept over the Xolinth Prime and his minions with equal disdain, lighting upon the tall figure lingering just behind the Weequay.

Qui-Gon tried to touch his mind across the training bond, and he found himself reflexively withdrawing, as swiftly as he might have parried a sloppy saber strike. He watched the Jedi master's grey eyes widen infintesmally, a liquid regret damping the Force's burning currents, and then turned away, sucking in a shuddering breath. He was alone here, on his own two feet and supported by the Force – and nothing else.

Merggum flicked a hand in his general direction, and three of the guards shouldered their way into the cell's confines, one of them fingering a thin pressure hypo. The other two seized him, twisting his arms until the joints screamed in objection. The third man stepped closer –

-and the Force exploded from some hidden recess, some tiny corner of his soul not scored by the whiplash betrayal and befouled by the first round of drugs. The Xolinthi flew backward, hitting the three walls of the prison, cursing as their heads struck hard stone. Obi-Wan crouched, hands curling into fists, aware of nothing but the fire running in his veins and the presence of Qui-Gon, standing between himself and the only route of escape.

Snarling, he rolled beneath a pair of grasping arms, Force-wrenched a weapon from the next man's grip, planted his elbow in another's jaw, sprang and rolled over a fourth, sent another crashing savagely into the outside corridor wall, summoned the man's fallen blaster into his hands, shot out the cell barrier controls and the overhead lighting, hurtled the weapon at the next foe's face, and pelted down the long passageway only to find it barred by another dozen guards.

"_Sith-spit."_ He wheeled about, ducking beneath a warning shot, and slammed directly into Qui-Gon, their bodies closing hard in a violent tussle of limbs and clashing wills, superior size and strength against sheer desperate instinct. He had never yet beaten the Jed master at a wrestling match, and the contest was brutally short. It ended with the would-be escapee neatly pinned in a headlock, squirming futilely in the tall man's painfully tight grip.

"Don't be _stupid,"_ Jinnson hissed at him. The words echoed in the Force, warning and supplication at once.

The young Jedi writhed, raw back chafing against the valet's stiff clothing, throbbing head roaring with renewed anger. He twisted wildly, heedless of the pain, shaking with vehemence as he sought the worst malediction possible. _Liar! Oath-breaker! Filthy Sith-begotten forsworn pizzmah!_ He threw the insults against the tall man's implacable mental walls, gutted by the unthinkable reversal, still floundering in a sea of confusion.

Merggum loomed over the pair of them, grunting some foreign imprecation. A soothing wave of light washed over the struggling Padawan, a feeble attempt to restrain his uncharacteristically raging emotions. _Obi-Wan! Hear me – trust me. You don't understand. _

Something cold and sharp pricked against the skin of his neck; acid burned in its wake, followed by renewed dizziness and a further darkening of his senses. Sound and color and thought melded and ran together; his knees gave way, his weight sagging limply in the tall man's grip; the world's axis tilted again, inverting present and past, truth and reality, friend and foe, until the Force itself smeared into indistinguishable grey, an ocean of tainted light.

He might have sobbed aloud, flailing for purchase in a world bereft of anchor or center, but he seemed to choke on the shattered particles of his own voice, to drown in the rising tide of poison. He slid beneath the toxin's dark horizon again, unaware of the soft brush of fingers against his face, nor the merciless hands that hustled him away down the corridor toward the hangar bay and Merggum's private shuttle.

* * *

"I want the Jedi here, in the cockpit," Merggum ordered his minions. The men nodded their heads, dropping the listless prisoner into one of the passenger seats and binding his wrists to the molded armrests with energy-cuffs before retreating into the adjacent hold.

Qui-Gon counted them as they departed: four, plus the four others waiting behind. A mere detachment of eight, only a fraction of the hordes left stationed inside the asteroid stronghold itself. Including Merggum, a potential battle of nine against one, with an incapacitated Padawan as risky collateral. He exhaled, fingers running over the pommel of his saber, deftly recovered from its hiding-place on the way up the ship's ramp.

The Force gathered, tense as a strung wire. It was not over yet, and there was much at stake.

The Weequay overlord guided his personal vessel out the maglev barrier and wove a careful course through the tumbling debris field. "My lord will be most eager to hear news of this Jedi's treachery… and of your unexpected role in his capture," Merggum remarked, edging around a colossal frozen boulder and twisting beneath the next obstacle. "Comms are blocked inside this field – a useful security measure, as I am sure you will readily agree – but once in clear space, we will send a transmission. You are familiar with _him…._ but I wonder: is he also familiar with you?"

Jinnson shrugged. "I am of no consequence to one of his ambitions. But I flatter myself that he may know me by reputation." His heart beat a steady rhythm, a silent martial drumming. If he could but _glimpse_ this mysterious figure whom Merggum feared, who presumably was the mastermind behind the planned secessionist movement, behind the consolidation of power in the Xolinth sector, behind the unprecedented "conditioning" camp for the Weequay's special forces… then he would have succeeded beyond his own wildest expectations.

Behind them, Obi-Wan stirred, groaning as he surfaced from the cruel drug's initial devastating effects. The tall man did not dare acknowledge his presence, or offer comfort. He heard the boy cough, the hiccupping rasp of his breath, the stifled whimper as his groggy movements jostled the energy binders and sent a shocking jolt through his already abused system.

Merggum cleared the last of the asteroids and sailed into the open expanse of space, the lovely field of glittering stars and a ribbon of pale nebulous color draped across the viewport. The distant sun glinted on transparisteel, a perpetual daybreak broken into bright spectral bands by the curved surface.

"Now, my young Jedi friend, I wonder also whether you have irksome allies lurking nearby," the Xolinth prime growled, setting the proximity scanners to full active mode. He swiveled in his seat, reaching out a calloused hand to grip his captive by the ear, twisting the large gemstone there between his fingers and then ripping it loose in one swift motion. "You don't need this anymore."

Obi-Wan yelped in pain, a spatter of fresh blood trickling down his neck and collarbone. He scowled at the leering Weequay, blinking furiously to focus his vision.

Hiu Merggum snorted in amusement and peered at his scanner display. "Nothing. Good. It would seem you are not so well loved as Mr Jinnson feared."

Qui-Gon dared a backward glance, sending a wave of reassurance to his battered apprentice – to no avail. The boy was too disoriented to feel the benign Force-borne touch in his mind; the Xolinth had exercised no moderation in the use of their nerve-scrambling poison. The Jedi master clenched his jaw, drawing in a steadying breath. He had hoped Dooku would have stayed… lingered perhaps just outside the system, in hopes of intercepting them. A doubt gnawed in the tall man's mind: had he overestimated his former master's intuition? Or underestimated his callousness? There were no hard and fast protocols for handling such a situation. Dooku may have judged the safe conduct of the Galans and the resistance leaders a more pressing priority than the immediate succor of his fellow Jedi. It was quite possible that he and Obi-Wan were on their own – and this would indeed be the last chance of escape.

But he still yearned to discover the identity of Merggum's shadowy superior. The Force urged him to wait, to be patient. Outside the shuttle's confines, four more Xolinthi fighters cruised into view, circling idly like thranctills riding a high wind in search of prey. So the Prime was not as trusting as he appeared – or else paranoia ran bone deep within him.

Merggum was busily adjusting his long-range transmitter, fine-tuning the comm relay. The holo-projector spluttered, static playing over its plate for a handful of seconds, bands of fizzing blue light wavering in thin air, not yet resolved into an image. Qui-Gon leaned closer, breath bated.

"What is it, Merggum? I did not expect another report from you so soon," a garbled voice crackled over the transmitter. The image remained veiled by striating static – or perhaps the speaker had purposefully disabled his holo-cam.

The enormous Weequay commander grinned widely. "I have discovered a spy in our midst – and a new ally, as well. He claims to know of you, my lord."

Qui-Gon leaned closer, peering intently at the wavering and spluttering mirage above the projector plate. Did he see the drape of a cowled cloak? Or was that naught but interference and random shadow? If there was a coherent form hidden in the hologram's scrambled depths, he did not recognize it.

But – horribly – the speaker did recognize _him._

"Qui-Gon Jinn," the distorted voice snapped, sharpening with alarm. "Merggum, you fool!"

The transmission ended in a flash of dissipating light; Merggum spun to face his supposed ally, a fearful snarl curling his lips over sharpened teeth; Qui-Gon's saber leapt into his hand, green blade snapping into thrumming vibrancy, growling a note of low warning in the cramped space.

The Xolinth stumbled backward against the console, hands clawing for the blaster at his side; a flash of emerald fire and the weapon was cloven in two, its halves skittering across the decks. Qui-Gon pivoted, buried his blade in the locking mechanism for the cockpit doors, and burned the controls' heart out. Pinning the Xolinth Prime against the viewport with a crushing Force-grip, he released his Padawan and hauled the boy to his feet.

Obi-Wan stared, stumbling into the curved bulkhead and clinging to a bracket for support, blue eyes registering only dim comprehension, brows quirked upward in helpless question.

The Jedi master sent Merggum crashing down into the console, and tugged his Padawan's weapon out of the overlord's sash. "Here. Hold the doors."

The Xolinth struck savagely at his foe; fingers closing on a razor thin shiv hidden somewhere beneath his jacket. Qui-Gon seized the Weequay's knife-arm with his free hand and smashed the pommel of his saber into the snarling Xolinthi's jaw, sending him sprawling backward again. The 'saber's green blade spun once in a tight flourish and ended against Merggum's neck, burning tip spilling terrible radiance upon the warlord's exposed throat.

"But – but, the prisoner…" the helpless Xolinth protested, eyes wide with disbelief.

"My _apprentice,"_ Qui-Gon ground out, the horror of the past hours spilling over the edge of his control. "Call your men off."

But the Prime only chuckled. "You are a dead man, either way," he gasped, writhing as the plasma blade singed his thickly reticulated skin. "Jedi scum! There is nobody out here but ourselves, and the hyperdrive on this vessel is deactivated. My fighters will destroy this ship if it attempts to leave the system. I am no _fool."_

"Master!"

Qui-Gon glanced up, a shout of surprise and relief welling up within him, almost escaping between his rage-clenched teeth. Before his eyes, dropping into realspace at dangerous proximity to the cluster of smaller vessels, so close in fact that it was practically on top of them, appeared a Republic diplomatic cruiser, red ensign emblazoned triumphantly on the starboard hull. One of Merggum's fighters disintegrated upon the larger ship's shields; the others veered wildly off, avoiding imminent collision by a hairsbreadth.

Obi-Wan was in the pilot's chair and pulling on the manual yoke with both arms, twisting the shuttle in a sickening dive to one side, barely skimming over the cruiser's thruster array. They spun, lurching wildly out of range, alarms sounding as the ion drives disrupted their own shields and sensors.

Merggum rolled across the cockpit as they narrowly avoided destruction, trying to wrench open the aft hatches with his bare hands. Qui-Gon closed his fist, seizing the Weequay with the Force and sending him hurtling into the seat so recently occupied by his Padawan. The 'saber thrummed hot in warning. "Do not move."

Obi-Wan slumped over the shuttle's controls, clutching the edge of the console, panting.

Vibrant bolts of plasma erupted outside the viewport; outpowered, the Xolinth fighters turned tail and fled for the safety of the asteroid field.

"Padawan." Qui-Gon's hand was batted away with ferocious energy, his comforting gesture curtly rejected

Merggum's shuttle rattled and juddered beneath them, caught in the inexorable grip of a tractor beam. The hull groaned; the drives whined; warning lights flashed and blinked.

Obi-Wan doubled over and retched all over the decks.

A jolt as the larger vessel swallowed them into its docking bay, the groan of drives powering down, of magnetic clamps set into place. The bright influx of artificial light. Merggum's snarl of displeasure melded with the noise of fusion cutters working on their sealed ramp. Blasters fired; men shouted; a surge of feet tramping in the hold just beyond, and then a blast of rending metal as the cockpit doors were wrenched loose of their moorings and torn apart by a breath-taking blast of Force energy.

Merggum cowered in place as Yan Dooku swept placidly into the tiny cockpit, dark cloak skirling at his heels, one elegant hand resting casually upon his saber's hilt. Behind him, Magg Zurl and the entire Galan security force grappled with Merggum's men, an ugly congregation of weaponry and flailing limbs.

The silver-haired Jedi surveyed the scene with a cold detachment, grey eyes passing over the cringing Weequay to the Padawan hunched at the pilot's station, and then up to meet his former student's gaze. "Another pretty mess of your making, Qui-Gon. I see some things do not change with the tides of time."

Behind them, Zurl and his men managed to subdue the last of the Xolinthi troops, dragging them out the shuttle's ramp amid a torrent of cursing and scuffling.

Dooku sighed, indicating Merggum with a serene nod of his head. "I'll leave you to secure your latest stray in the brig," he told the tall man, neatly stepping between Qui-Gon and his apprentice. "We had best depart before reinforcements can arrive." He slipped his black cloak off and folded it about the Padawans' shivering frame. "Here, boy, come."

Qui-Gon watched helplessly as Obi-Wan allowed Dooku to steady him on his feet, guide his faltering steps toward the ruined and sparking doors.

The Sentinel paused on the threshold, one arm thrust protectively beneath the young Jedi's shoulders. "I am eager to hear of your mission's outcome," he told the other master. "I can see it was one of your memorable escapades." And with a dry, ironic smile, he tightened his hold on Obi-Wan and took his leave.


	19. Chapter 19

**Lineage VI**

* * *

Chapter 19.

* * *

Yan Dooku's ship was as tidy and elegant as the silver-haired Jedi master himself; every inch of paneling immaculately polished, not a single bolt or scrap of circuitry out of place. Obi-Wan stumbled several times during the brief transit from aft cargo bay through a short corridor to the forward hold. Dooku's supporting grip tightened, bespeaking an eerily undiminished strength for a man in his late sixties.

"Now, now," the Jedi master murmured, waving open the door to a single miniscule cabin behind the cockpit. "Stay with me, boy." He guided his staggering, disoriented companion over the threshold and onto the inset bunk, easing him down upon his side with an imperious courtesy. The interior cabin lights flickered on automatically; another curt gesture adjusted them to a more tolerable intensity.

"Kenobi. Look at me."

It took Obi-Wan a moment to recognize his own name and identity, so long eclipsed by Prince Beju's repulsive persona. He blinked, following the lazy spin of the ceiling, before finally gathering his drifting wits and squinting blearily at Yan Dooku's angular face.

The Sentinel peered critically at him, probing inquisitively with the Force, his gray eyes narrowing in disapproval. "Stars' end. Neuro-damping toxins." Distaste edged his neatly clipped tones. "How uncivilized."

The Padawan shook his head feebly. He hadn't meant to be uncivilized – indeed, he had been offered absolutely no choice in the matter. Given his druthers, he would not have –

"Tush, child, I know that," Dooku chided, pushing aside the cloak's folds to have a glimpse at the welts and scras left by Merggum's electrowhip.. "These Xolinthi are barbarians, born and bred." A strong hand, all long fingers and knotted tendons, was pressed against the young Jedi's belly, healing Force energies radiating outward from the point of contact, a melting hearth-fire kindling beneath his solar plexus.

"Master," Obi-Wan rasped, uncertain really whom it was that he addressed, or whether he merely called on the Force itself.

"Quiet," Dooku commanded, another questing mental tendril groping cautiously beneath the Padawan's shields. Too exhausted to resist, already bruised into submission, Obi-Wan let the Sentinel do as he pleased, basking gratefully in the Force's soporific warmth. Dooku's aquiline features hardened into grim lines as he skimmed through off recent anguished memory. "Hm." A mirthless chuckle followed this enigmatic pronouncement. "Well, well, Qui Gon. You never cease to amaze."

"…Master?"

But the silver haired man did not elucidate. "A discussion for another time, I think." His thin mouth quirked in what might have been a rueful smile. "You've had a most exacting adventure, I should say. Now rest."

Closing his eyes, the Padawan obediently sank halfway into a healing trance, gladly abandoning the fractured and anxious present for a soothing haven of Light.

Dooku remained a few more moments, contemplatively stroking his short beard, then turned on his heel and slipped out the door.

* * *

It took some time to secure Hiu Merggum in the small shipboard brig; by the time Qui-Gon had finished with the unpleasant exercise, the Weequay had managed to somewhat extend his broad familiarity with insulting vernacular idioms. There were one or two particularly obscene turns of phrase he decided never to mention in his apprentice's hearing. The thought brought with it a sudden pang.

He hurried to the upper decks, eager to see his Padawan, to explain the terrible turn of events, his motives and reasons, and most importantly to soothe the boy's clearly wounded feelings. Later they would meditate on serenity, and on the dangers of attachment, but now-

-now, he was delayed by the anxious presence of Magg Zurl and his colleagues. The Galan security squadron stood at attention just outside the cargo bay entrance.

"Mr. Jinnson," Zurl hailed him. "Or… I suppose it isn't Jinnson at all, Master Jedi."

Qui-Gon bowed. "I must thank you and your men for your services in overpowering the Xolinthi forces. The Republic is in your debt."

The guardsman flushed. "We are loyal servants of Gala. May I ask, where is our true Prince? If you have harmed him, it is our duty to secure recompense for such treachery, by force of arms if necessary."

The tall Jedi stifled a snort of amusement. "That won't be necessary, His Royal Highness Prince Beju has been detained – it is true – but has been in no way harmed." For a moment, he wondered whether a forced exile in the company of the stern Iktotchi Sentinel Yarriss Moll had perhaps wrought some positive reformation in the delinquent Prince's soul, but there was no answer to be found in the Force's limpid depths, so he dismissed the idle question from his mind. "He will be escorted safely back to Gala, now that our mission here is finished. I am sorry for the necessary deception played upon you and your loyal companions."

The Galan merely saluted him. " We are men of duty," he said, stiffly.

Qui-Gon nodded, edging past the group of hard-faced security officers, and made his way to the forward compartments.

* * *

"Master Jedi!"

Halting in his tracks, aggrieved by the repeated distractions and delays, but submerging his personal urgency to be elsewhere beneath a perfect façade of courtesy, Qui-Gon bowed to Niik-Al, the leader of the Xolinthi sector resistance.

"I understand that I owe my life and that of my daughter to your efforts," the haggard man said, eyes bright with gratitude. "I assure you, I will do whatever lies in my power to see Merggum brought to justice."

The Jedi master gave an affirming nod. "You will be required as a key witness in the Senate investigation and subsequent trial. It may mean a lengthy stay on Coruscant, or under the protective custody of the Republic elsewhere."

Niik-Al digested this information gravely. "There was a time when I would have objected," he sighed. "But I would be dead without the Republic's interference. I am prepared."

"Good. I am honored to serve; if you will excuse –"

"Wait. A moment, please." The resistance leader drew himself up. "A matter touching my daughter, Estra. She claims that this Beju whom you accompanied – that this young man was also a Jedi in disguise."

"He was." The tall man frowned, already anticipating the direction this conversation would take.

Niik-Al scowled. "She believes herself to be… compromised by this young man."

Qui-Gon's brows shot upward. "I assure you, such is impossible. I was present with them at all times, and my apprentice did not behave in a dishonorable fashion. Such conduct is contrary to our Code."

The thin man pursed his lips. "You will forgive me if I press the point, but my daughter has heard rumors… one hears many such tales, it is hard to discern truth from exaggeration… but she has heard tell that members of your Order are possessed of such superabundant virility that they may dispense with the ordinary methods, conceiving offspring without physical contact, by the mystical power of your Force."

Qui-Gon managed to keep a straight face. After all, he was an accomplished diplomat and a keen sabaac enthusiast. "That rumor is – to the best of my knowledge – untrue. And even if such a feat were possible, I assure you, " – the corner of his mouth twitched, despite his most rigidly exercised control – "that my apprentice is no adept of such esoteric and difficult arts."

Niik –Al visibly relaxed. "So I told her, but it is a great comfort to hear it from your own mouth. I beg your pardon if I caused offense."

The Jedi master again bowed. "We come to serve."

* * *

"This uncle of yers is quite a character, Mr, Jinnson."

His progress was again barred, this time by Chylld. The cook stood arms akimbo, her impressive width effectively blocking the narrow passage. "He knows you all right, he says, and agrees to take us aboard, he does. But we're no closer to Gala than we started, I notices, and when I asks him why he says we're turning round to fetch you and the Prince back up. And what happens then? You come gallivanting in here like you owns the place and I hear some mighty queer things about you and your doings."

Qui-Gon patiently endured her chatter. "I am afraid there are some details you do not yet-"

"Details indeed!" the irate Chylld interrupted. "For one, your good uncle claims you're the black sheep of the family so to speak and when I says to him, Mr. Jinnson is a right honorable man and gives very good service to the Prince, he laughs in that funny way of his and says not a word by way of explaining. And when I wants to know why this ship is full of so many folks and what he's doing out here in the first place, he tells me we're headed back to Coruscant of all places, where he lives. And when I asks about your employ, he says you work all over the place and not just in one household like a respectable person. So I need to know, Mr. Jinnson, what exactly is it that you've been hiding from me?"

A deep breath, and a short bow. "You will forgive me, madam. The deception was necessary. I am in truth a Knight of the Jedi Order, and –"

The ebullient cook snorted in disbelief.. "A Jedi?" she repeated, her mouth forming the syllables slowly, as though never before uttering the word.

"Yes." Qui Gon offered her a tight smile. He hoped her adulation would be contained within the bounds of –

He reeled in utter shock when the woman's broad hand delivered a stunning backhanded slap to his face.

"A _Jedi!"_ Chylld exclaimed. "And here I thought you was a gentleman!"

She stormed past, nearly flattening him against the bulkhead as she shouldered her way through, and flounced into the cargo hold beyond.

* * *

Dooku accosted him just outside the cockpit.

"The boy is well enough, considering his recent, ah, misadventures," the elder man placidly informed him. "The last thing he needs is your ministrations, I might add."

Qui-Gon's throat tightened, incipient rage strangling all reply in his throat. "Is there a shipboard med-droid?" he managed to croak out after an awkward pause.

Dooku lifted a brow. "No; I've already done what I can for your Padawan. He will survive, Qui-Gon… and live to be wiser, I hope."

The tall man fumed. "I need to contact the Council," he told the Sentinel, drawing himself up to his full height so that he looked down upon his former teacher. The difference in stature seemed insignificant compared to the present difference in composure; however. His hand closed about his saber's hilt, seeking the compass of light within its crystal.

"I have already informed them of our return, with guests for the Judiciary. Arrangements will be made accordingly. Your _personal_ report is requested immediately upon your arrival at the Temple, of course."

Qui-Gon deliberately unclenched his jaw. "You are as efficient as ever, master."

Dooku smiled wanly. "I have a good deal of experience cleaning up your messes, if you recall." He leveled his steely gaze at the younger man. "Though you would do well to remember that not _every_ pathetic life form under your wing is a pawn to be played lightly in some dejarik game."

"I do not follow your meaning," the tall master lied.

"No? " the Sentinel drummed long fingers against his own weapon's curving hilt, and then shrugged. "You were always a slow learner," he murmured, dismissing his Padawan of long ago with a disappointed sigh.

* * *

Qui-Gon leaned wearily against the closed cabin door. The vent duct overhead spilled forth a cascade of warmth, faintly redolent of minerals and air-cycling additives. Shipboard air was oxygen-rich, other neutral compounds added to render it maximally breathable by a multitude of species, and definitively microbe-free. There was no natural planetary atmosphere quite like it; the tall Jedi master always felt the acute artificiality of space travel with every inhalation.

It was a point of easy agreement between himself and his Padawan: neither of them particularly liked flying, though for quite different reasons.

Now gazing down upon that same young man – wrapped disconcertingly in a mantle of ebony, Beju's dark tangle of hair a jarring contrast to sickly-pale skin – he wondered if there would ever again be such welcome consonance between them. Four years' teasing quips and clever repartees ran tauntingly through his memory, a burbling stream of wit smoothing a pristine riverbed of trust and dedication, gentling the stones of discipline and respect into something finer, more akin to…

He grimaced, remembering that lively interchange of minds and wills, a rippled surface refracting brilliant Light. His chest clenched, seeing those once pure waters now polluted, and knowing that it was he who had committed such unforgivable desecration. He perched on the bunk's edge, longing to rip Dooku's cloak off Obi-Wan's shoulders, to shear off the heavy mane of mahogany hair – with his lightsaber if needful – and thus reveal once more the innocent boy of ten, or twelve, or fourteen, obscured beneath the veil of intervening years. But he was too wise to suppose the damage so easily rectified; he had struck too deeply for that.

His hand rested lightly upon the young Jedi's knee. "I did it to save you," he said, aloud. And it had worked, had it not?

Qui-Gon rubbed the back of one hand across the stinging bruise on his cheekbone, the mark of Chylld's condemnation, a trifling outward sign of the guilty brand upon his heart. He breathed his distress out, into the vigilant Force, but tempting new despair welled endlessly to replace that which he released.

The young Jedi's eyes fluttered open, tracking over the white ceiling and walls for a full ten seconds before focusing on Qui-Gon. A spark of recognition leapt across their muted bond, and a furrow appeared between the Padawan's brows.

He pushed upright, awkwardly, drawing the dark cloak tight about his body. He skewered the Jedi master with a look of refined fury. "Go away," he grunted, voice gravelly with clinging sleep and buried emotion.

The tall man did not move. "Obi-Wan," he tried, pressing gently against the boy's raised shields.

"Don't," his apprentice snapped, sliding to his feet and bracing himself against the opposite wall, color draining from his face as he stood. "I don't want to talk about it."

Qui-Gon remained sitting, an unfamiliar churning in his gut, the forgotten image of Xanatos DuCrion swimming before his imagination again, another pair of blue eyes bright with rage, another young voice cracking in outrage at an obscene turnabout, a supposed personal betrayal. "Padawan, hear me out. I only wish to explain. Your perceptions may not agree with reality."

Obi-Wan's brows rose sarcastically. "Apparently not."

"I acted in your own best interest," Qui-Gon quietly insisted.

"Good job," came the acid retort.

"Sit down so we can discuss this properly," the Jedi master remonstrated, suppressing an answering flare of anger. Was he not to be given so much as a fair hearing? And who was his own apprentice to judge his actions out of hand?

"Forgive me, but I do not require my posterior to be in any particular place when I converse… of course, _I_ do not employ it as my primary means of communication. Others may speak out of whatever orifice best suits the importance of their thoughts."

The words were edged with caustic poison, crude in meaning and thrust at Qui-Gon with deliberate boldness. "So help me, Padawan! _Sit,"_ he repeated, lacing the command with the Force's absolute power, a whiplash assertion of authority, an attempt to directly scourge away in spirit the scars he had inflicted so unwillingly upon the body.

It had little effect. "NO." And a pair of blue eyes simultaneously reviled and implored him to end the strife. A pair of eyes like blue sapphires, embers of unwholesome anger marring their perfect depths, ruinous seeds of darkness planted there by betrayal, by confusion, by a stubborn inability to _be quiet and listen -_

…_Xanatos drowning in hate, in betrayal, in an ocean of pain…_ He could not – would not – see another Padawan fall to the lure of darkness, not like this, not _this_ boy, not under such awful auspices, not here nor ever, while he yet breathed.

Qui-Gon surged to his feet, towering head and shoulders over his apprentice, fear dissolving his self-restraint. "I will settle for a modicum of _obedience, _ since _respect_ seems so far out of your reach at present."

"Yes, _master."_ Obi-Wan gritted out the honorific like a Huttese curse. "What is your whim? What shall I do to please you? Will selling myself on the slave-market suit your purposes, or shall I rather cut off my own arm? I still have much to learn, but surely your ineffable wisdom will guide me infallibly on a path _in my own best interest."_

They stood locked in trembling opposition, the Force erupting magmaic around them, molten pain seeping across each man's internal barriers. "Those words merit a harsh reprisal, Padawan," Qui-Gon growled.

The young Jedi fixed him with a fearless look, bottomless fire burning in his eyes, voice thrumming low like a saber's unforgiving blade. "Then whip me until I scream, master. And rest happy knowing that I _trust_ you not to shirk your thrice-damned duty."

The Jedi master raised his hand, reflexively, the urge to _strike_ the Dark out of his student nearly overwhelming. The young Jedi flinched, anticipating the blow that never fell; and Qui-Gon stepped back, speechless with horror at his own daring, with grief for what was lost.

Obi-Wan turned on his heel, head and shoulders bowed beneath the weight of some excruciating inner struggle. "Go away," he begged, voice breaking piteously.

Too numb to protest, Qui-Gon did as he was asked, retreating into corridor in bitter defeat. And the watchful, passionless Force offered him neither counsel nor comfort.


	20. Chapter 20

**Lineage VI**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

The cruiser, and the tangle of legal and personal complications it entailed, dropped away into the distance as the private air taxi climbed into Coruscant's free traffic lanes, leaving the spaceport bustle and stink far behind. The vehicular damping fields secured its two passengers from noise and wind, and the droid pilot mercifully made no attempts at small talk.

Neither, for that matter, did either Jedi. They sat reticent through the short journey back to the Temple precinct, arms crossed in identical poses over their chests, cloak hoods drawn well up over sober faces, presences barricaded deep in the Force's limitless stronghold.

When the dour tenor of their shared silence grew intolerable, Obi-Wan broke its uninterrupted sovereignty with a small, heartfelt expression of relief. "I can't wait to be back in decent clothes again." Though he had only a pair of shredded lavender breeches left as souvenir of Beju's extraordinarily fatuous wardrobe, he was eager to trade them in for proper Jedi tunics. And he would welcome the sight of Qui-Gon divested of the obnoxious Galan livery, as well. He hoped never to encounter Mr. Jinnson again, truth be told.

The Jedi master continued to gaze out the viewport, watching the lazy procession of fantastic highrises and sculptured towers as they skimmed across the vast city-scape. "Hm. The first destination on your itinerary will, however, be the healers' ward."

The Padawan shifted peevishly, releasing a long breath.

Qui-Gon flicked his eyes sideways, tapping three fingers impatiently against his knee.

"Yes, master," his apprentice ground out, immediately training his attention out the opposite side of the sky car, where the far-flung industrial sector sent spiraling pillars of smoke to the glowing clouds. In the end, he did not care particularly where his itinerary landed him.

"I will be involved with the Council report," Qui-Gon added. "It may take some time."

"Yes, master." Obi-Wan found that he again did not care one way or the other; let the Council session extend through the oncoming night until dawn. – it made no difference to him.

"Master Dooku may also be occupied with arrangements for the Galans and Xolinthi. I trust you can find your way to Ben To unaccompanied?"

"Yes, master." It didn't matter. Not much really did. Certainly not personal feelings. _There is nothing, only the Force._ He smiled bitterly at his private abridgement of the Code, mirthlessly watching the smoke columns on the horizon dissolve into the crimson pennants of sunset.

If Qui-Gon felt his flicker of dark amusement, the tall man made no remark upon it, and they exchanged no further words until the air taxi was swallowed into the cool shadows of the Temple's east-facing public docking bay.

* * *

The Council chamber was an imposing ring of silence; the full circle of masters gathered in grim anticipation of his arrival. Qui-Gon reached the center of the inlaid floor and made his formal bow, feeling exposed without the traditional armor of his cloak. Still clad in Jinnson's rumpled uniform, he felt himself out of place in his surroundings.

"We are eager to hear the outcome of your mission to the Xolinth sector," Mace rumbled. The Korun's dark face betrayed no emotion, nor any sign of his inner thoughts. His hands rested casually upon his chair's broad armrests. Only a minute tightening about his eyes indicated that a deeper question undergirded the bland opening query.

Qui-Gon's glance flitted to Yoda, crouched imperiously in the next chair, white hair gilded with blazing light by the last rays of sun.

"Your Padawan," the ancient master slyly remarked. "Not present is he. Injured, perhaps?"

The tall man shifted his weight. "Our mission was.. trying. He is presently under the healers' care, yes. As I am certain Master Dooku has already informed this Council."

Mace's dark eyes narrowed further, but Yoda's face crumpled with acerbic mirth. "Rumor : faster than light it flies, but not as straight. Ugly tidings we have heard. Eager to have receive a better account, we are, hm?"

Qui-Gon's mouth tightened, the old troll's irony hitting its mark as truly as ever. "I had best start from the beginning."

"Do." Mace crossed his legs, deliberately. "I assure you, we are ready for a _thorough _narrative of the entire operation."

* * *

"Well, Kenobi, let's see the latest consequences of your headstrong pursuit of disaster," senior healer Ben To Li chuffed, bustling into the secluded examination room with his habitual brusque air.

When his jest provoked no tart reply, he paused, taking a good look at his favorite victim from under bushy silver brows. He approached warily, as one would a cornered feral beast, cautiously relieving the boy of his borrowed cloak and _tsk_-ing over the welted tracery of red upon the young Jedi's back.

"Bant," he said quietly. "Shut the door, please."

The Mon Cal apprentice healer sidled into the room, round eyes taking in her friend's silent, glowering mien and then meeting the healer's cautionary gaze. "Oh, Obi… what have you been doing this time?"

"I'm … fine," her fellow Padawan insisted, dully, as the senior healer spread fingertips along his jaw and temples, making a Force-aided evaluation of the damage. "Good heavens, boy…." One hand dropped gently upon a bruised shoulder. "You're a mess. Who's been dumping toxins in your system? I'm surprised you even know who you are."

Obi-Wan exhaled, studying the floor, skin prickling slightly in the cool air. "I suppose I have to stay," he muttered.

Bant cocked her head to one side, stroking his arm with her webbed fingers. "We can wait for the bacta tank until Master Jinn comes back from -,"

His head snapped up, rare fire lighting his eyes. "I'm _fine,_ Bant. I'd rather just have done with it."

Ben To caught the Mon Cal girl's eye, running one hand over his pointed beard. "You really don't know who you are, do you?" he addressed his patient. The quip did not disguise a thin underlying note of concern. "Bacta first, and then bloodwork. That poison needs to be flushed from your system – next you'll be asking to study the healing arts as my apprentice, too, and that's an ordeal I'm not courageous enough to face."

Obi-Wan offered him a pale and dutiful smile, but nothing else.

The two healers exchanged another unsettled glance, and then Bant left to prepare the bacta solution.

"Come, come." Master Li momentarily laid aside his gruff demeanor. "It's all right, young one. There's nothing time and the Force can't mend."

The Padawan looked as though he hoped this might be true.

Ben-To counted it a minor victory. "But for now, off with those ridiculous purple britches. Humiliation first, philosophy lessons afterward."

* * *

"And both Niik-Al, and the Galans involved in the prison break, are presently on planet, awaiting the Judiciary's attention," Qui-Gon finished. "Their evidence – besides the witness provided by myself and Obi-Wan, should be more than sufficient to warrant a Republic intervention in the sector."

Ki Adi Mundi sighed, leaning back in his chair. "This news of a secessionist plot is highly unexpected."

"And disturbing," Mace seconded.

"This _conditioning _ center," Master Even Piell grunted, one good eye squinting balefully at his fellow masters. "Dat's something ve've not seen before on such a scale, eh?"

Qui-Gon nodded. "Except the experimental plans put in place by the Arbor Foundation, no."

All eyes turned to Yoda, but the ancient one merely cleared his throat with a noisy and irritable rumble, idly stirring the air with his stick's haft. "Schemes and plans," he grated out. "Hmmm. But one behind Merggum there was. And perhaps another behind him. Say you that recognize this figure you did not, Qui Gon?"

"The transmission was too garbled, master."

"But knew you he did, eh?"

Mace and Yoda exchanged a suspicious look, a fleeting touch of minds within the Force. The name _Syfo-Dyas _ hung unspoken amidst the assembly.

"Shutting down the Xolinthi operation will not suffice to suppress rebellion elsewhere, if this is true," Oppo Rancisis pointed out.

"But it may pose a delay in this… mysterious plot," Mace countered. "I will submit to the Chancellor that Jedi will be made available for peacekeeping in the sector, if Republic aid is sent to restore order in the wake of Merggum's removal."

Qui-Gon's head came up, a forgotten piece of the puzzle falling into place. "The elections," he said. "Obi-Wan heard Merggum's superior express a preference for a particular candidate. Who has taken office?"

Mace raised his brows. "The final votes are not counted, but it seems to be Senator Valorum, by a landslide." He frowned. "However - we cannot involve ourselves in such matters. A chancellior election is valid whether or not it serves the purposes of some unknown and malicious power."

The tall man bowed his agreement.

"Useful, this information is, Master Jinn," Yoda intervened. "Commended you are for your efforts. Now, another matter there is to discuss."

Qui-Gon braced himself, knowing full well that the _other matter_ had been submitted to the Coucnil's attention ahead of time, by Dooku. He straightened his spine and exhaled slowly, feeling the penetrating gaze of twelve other Jedi upon him.

Mace leaned forward, emanating a tightly controlled outrage. "Your Padawan," he began.

* * *

Tahl opened the door of her private quarters, brows arching upward in surprise. "Obi-Wan. What are you doing here?"

"Standing on your threshold waiting for an invitation to enter, Master Uvain," came the dry response.

She moved aside, allowing him to brush past. Her nose wrinkled delicately. "And why do I smell bacta?"

A moment's disgruntled pause. "Because I was drowning in it an hour ago."

"And they've released you already." She closed the door, listening to his progress across the room.

"From a certain point of view." The pad of bare feet and a swish of trailing cloak hem against the floor as he made his way to her low couch, an unusual furnishing she had permitted to be imported to her domicile as a grudging concession to debilitating illness. She could no longer kneel or sit easily upon a mediation cushion.

"And where are your boots – and your own clothes?"

"I…ah, in my quarters." The click of datapads or holobooks being set upon the table. "Master Li is probably wondering where his cloak has gone." The briefest flash of childish humor, a delight in Ben To's befuddlement, unsullied by remorse. "But I thought I would attract too much attention wandering the Temple corridors in these Sithly healers' tunics."

Tahl sat beside him, slowly. She levitated one of the holobooks into her outstretched hand. "So you're a refugee. Why didn't you wait for Qui-Gon to come rescue you?"

A snap of fury and hurt blazed across the Force, and was swiftly thrust beneath mental shields again. "I don't… my master's _rescue_ methods leave something to be desired, lately." A growling timbre girded the young Jedi's voice, forbidding further questions.

She ran her fingers over the book's hard surface, blind eyes unable to divine the volume's contents. "But you made a detour to the Archives on the way here, hm?"

"No. Bant fetched the books for me, actually. I promised to be good and rest if she did… but I never specified _where_ I would rest."

"I see." Tahl sensed that there was more – far more – but Obi-Wan had been very patient under interrogation thus far, and she knew his limits. Besides, he had come to her for sanctuary from whatever shadow haunted his steps. She handed the holobook back. "Very well. You may shelter here so long as you keep your word of honor and _rest._ But let's dispose of incriminating evidence first, shall we?"

So saying, she relieved him of Ben To's stolen cloak, replacing it with her own spare, a much better fit. She tossed the healer's garment into her laundry chute, consigning it to the care of the Temple's cleaning droids, who would eventually return the item to its proper owner. Behind her loomed a brooding thundercloud heavy with unshed rain. Stars above, did the boy think he was _shielding?_ He had much to learn. And so did she, apparently – though she had a fair idea how to best set about learning it.

"Are you hungry?"

"No." The Padawan's response was sullen; doubtless he still felt the lingering after-effects of bacta immersion. But the lethargy and lack of appetite would quickly fade.

"I'll take that as a yes. And after we eat, you will show proper gratitude by breaking your vow of silent suffering, and confessing all."

She couldn't see his scowl, but she could feel it. After all, she wasn't Force-blind. "I'll take that as a _yes, master,_" she decided, and went to see about the food.

* * *

Night had long ago fallen outside the curved panoramic windows.

Mace heaved a long sigh and inclined his head toward Yoda, deferring to the older master's wisdom. A wave of disapprobation swirled in the Force, nipping at Qui-Gon's heels as he stood – under judgment- at the focus of every attention.

"Hmmmph," the Grand master snorted, in disgust. "Publicly censured, you are not, Qui-Goon Jinn," he rasped at long last, thrusting one blunt claw at the weary man. "But privately warned, are you."

"The Order does not take the abuse of its younger members lightly- even in such desperate circumstances as you describe."

Qui-Gon clenched his teeth and remained silent, bowing deeply.

But Mace wasn't finished yet. "A Padawan is a trust placed under your care for a fixed period of time. You are charged with the boy's education and formation."

"And protection," Qui-Gon amended, testily.

Yoda chuffed sardonically. "Unusual your pedagogical methods are, Qui-Gon. Find fault with your service of the Force, this Council does not. A dedicated master are you, though often wandering far from the clear path. Question we do, whether this a good way to _teach_ is."

The Jedi master's heart skipped a beat. The moment had come. "You … have determined to dissolve the apprenticeship?" he asked, all emotion ruthlessly scoured from his voice.

Mace, who knew him best, relented first. The Korun Jedi tried to soften the blow. "Dooku has offered to take Obi-Wan as apprentice in your stead, if such is deemed best for all parties involved. He is very impressed with the boy's talent and progress thus far, and credits this to your influence. This is not a punishment, Qui-Gon – it is a possible solution. We cannot ask your present student to remain under your tutelage without option of redress. The Council has decided that the final decision will be left with Padawan Kenobi. And you are hereby forbidden to sway his choice by means of word or deed."

Stunned, Qui-Gon merely blinked. And then bowed, yet again, the pain of the blow outside the bounds of expectation, impaling him on the spot.

Yoda's pity was tepid. "Dismissed, you are. May the Force be with you., Master Jinn."

And he did not stumble nor utter a sound of protest until he had attained the solitary haven of the lift shaft.

* * *

The door slid open almost before he arrived.

"Tahl, I'm looking for –"

"Hush." Her brows quirked together eloquently, conveying a textured disapproval. "…You'll wake the baby."

Just visible over her shoulder, sprawled with an innocent abandon over two-thirds of Tahl's long couch, was the object of Qui-Gon's prolonged and apprehensive search. Releasing a sigh of blended relief and vexation, the Jedi master fished his comlink out of its pouch and hit the transmit switch.

"Well?" Ben To Li's curt voice rasped over the link.

"I've found him."

"Too much seek-and-evade nonsense for his own damn good," the senior healer grumbled. "Shall I send an armed escort to your location?"

The tall man quirked a brow at his softly snoring apprentice. "No – we'll sort out his release in the morning. My apologies, Ben To."

A derogatory snort from the healer's end. "On the contrary, my condolences, Master Jinn. He's _your_ Padawan. May the Force be with you."

Tahl waited until the comlink was back in its pouch. "Well, come in. I'd like a word with you, _Master Jinn."_

He waved the door shut with a weary snap of the wrist. "Tahl –"

"And that word is: _why?"_

He bristled. "There is no why," he snapped back, stung by the implied rebuke.

She turned, stalking across the spartan room to a small alcove in which the tea things were neatly stowed. "Tell that to your Padawan," she shot back. "I'm sure it will greatly aid his quest for wisdom and serenity."

"Tahl –"

But she rebuffed his attempt at contact, batting away his reaching fingers and dodging round him, pot in hand. "Bring the cups, you heartless barve." She led the way onto her enclosed balcony, the merest slip of space, a graced sanctuary between star-studded heaven above and the cluttered riot of nighttime Coruscant below. They stood close, sheltered by the thin balustrade and a haze of mutual indignation.

"Tahl," he began once again, but she silenced him with a burning look. Her sightless eyes twin pools of gold, limpid and accusatory depths of conscience.

"Obi-Wan."

"What about him?" Qui-Gon stalled for time, for leniency.

"He came here after escaping the healers," Tahl informed him tightly. "I fed him and made him read to me, and then sing for me, and then tell me the whole story. And then I gave him a strong brew of peruma and halzzah, and held his hand and sang to _him_ until he finally passed out. And where were _you_ all that time, I might ask?"

"Before the Council, confessing my misdemeanors," the tall man growled.

"I hope so, Qui, because you've outdone yourself this time. The Force grants you a second chance ," – she jabbed an irate finger back in the direction of her apartment and the sleeping Padawan – "and you opt to squander it by planting seeds of doubt and fear in a pristine field. How could you do such an atrocious thing to that boy?"

" I had to save him." He was sick to the bone with repeating it.

"So you abused his loyalty and courage. Well done."

"I took no pleasure in it," Qui-Gon frowned.

"Well, I'm sure that will make all the difference to Obi-Wan. You hated to do it, but you did it anyway," Tahl retorted, facetious.

"He _will_ understand, if I could only speak with him… those savages drugged him; he was confused and disoriented, imbalanced. He wasn't in his own right mind!" Qui-Gon objected.

"Neither were you, obviously!"

"Tahl," he begged, leaning heavily on the balcony's rail, trembling before the tribunal of destiny. "Dooku has offered to transfer the apprenticeship, if Obi-Wan so chooses." He

closed his eyes, shoulders drooping beneath the weight of his own folly.

A smog-laden breeze lifted a few strands of his hair. Traffic lights streamed by, indifferent to the sorrow bleeding in the Force. Tahl gently closed her hand over his, her scent drawing nearer.

"Oh, Qui. And what if he accepts?"

The Jedi master exhaled, dreading the hammer blow of justice, but accepting its verdict nonetheless/ "Then it is the will of the Force, and I deserve nothing better."

The night was suddenly cold. Cloakless, Tahl shuddered violently."Finish your tea," she whispered in Qui-Gon's ear.

And when he had complied, she led him back into the warmth of her private chamber and held his hand and sang to him until he, too, succumbed to the obliterating embrace of slumber.


	21. Chapter 21

**Lineage VI**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

* * *

Yan Dooku leaned over the observation balcony, intrigued by the salle's present occupants.

"Whoa-ho-ho," Jedi Knight Feld Spruu chortled, flourishing his 'saber in a lazy spin. "It's my favorite upstart junior Padawan."

Obi-Wan's brows furrowed together fractionally as he made a great show of adjusting his own weapon's power setting to the acceptable maximum for a friendly sparring match. The Force rippled with an unfulfilled _need._

The tall Twi'Lek Jedi strolled across the polished boards of the dojo floor, pausing a moment to study his visitor carefully. "Just breezing in here without an invitation, are we? Getting above yourself, Obi-Kenobi."

It earned him a swift upward glance, one tight with defensive tension. It smoothed quickly into deflective wit. "If you are too intimidated to practice with me, Master Spruu, I can return to the lower level salles to find a _challenging _ opponent."

"Oh you cheeky little barve, you must badly want a lesson today." Feld's wide smile illumined the very air… but not the dark place occupied invisibly by the younger Jedi.

They fell into position in the spacious salon's center. "I just want to fight," the Padawan replied, the jest hollow with unresolved anger.

Feld Spruu's demeanor sobered. "A man who comes armed with passion, begs for a _serious_ lesson, my little friend."

"Then teach me," the Padawan retorted, eyes narrowing, blade singing in a high flourish, the Force tensing with the absolute focus of battle.

Above, quietly observing the spectacle from the observation balcony, Yan Dooku's mouth curved upward at the corners, delighted at the clash of Spruu's acrobatic Ataru style with a gorgeous, flawlessly executed Makashi counterattack. He watched the duel appraisingly, pleased to note that none of the private instruction he had imparted to the younger contestant in years past had been forgotten. Indeed, there had been sufficient improvement to suggest that the young Jedi had found time – possibly covertly – to practice on his own. Not only this, but there was something there _now_ that he had not before noticed – the very spine of Dooku's chosen saber form, its essence: the boy was fighting to _win, _to secure a decisive victory and not merely to embody defensive patience.

He had discovered one of the galaxy's hard truths, then: honor alone was not sufficient to ensure peace, or to forestall suffering.

"I am still _waiting_ for my lesson, Master Spruu."

The young blue-complected Knight performed a dazzling aerial maneuver, lekku sailing behind him like double comet-tails. The brilliant defensive was met with a tight, almost furious Makashi parry and feint, a swift lunge and then – ah, perfect – a disarming strike. Really, Dooku reflected, the blow should have ended with a simple reverse cut to take off the opponent's hand at the wrist. But the boy was needlessly emotional… he wanted to keep fighting, not end the contest.

The Twi'Lek said something under his breath – likely an obscenity, judging by the Padawan's flippant smirk. And they set to again, this time ferociously and equally matched in Ataru, a mere circus-performers' lark compared to the austere beauty of Makashi. Dooku sniffed dismissively, far less interested in this display than the previous.

Anoon Bondara strolled into the balcony and leaned over the parapet, offering a nod of greeting. "Ah. Thank the Force. Maybe Feld can wear him out."

"Unlikely, I should say, judging by the pace of this match."

The swordsmaster frowned down upon the fireworks display below. "Star's end," he muttered. "Kenobi was in the junior practice rooms at dawn, and he's been at it straight ever since." He shook his head and withdrew again, pacing unhurriedly into the adjoining corridor abreast of Dooku . "And Jinn's doing the same thing in the senior dojo. A pair of holy terrors, those two."

"Indeed," Dooku concurred, parting ways with Bondara at the next intersection.

* * *

Completely wrung out by six hours' uninterrupted saber-play, and back in proper Jedi tunics at long last, Obi-Wan retreated to the Archives' east-facing wing, where midday light streamed down upon the reading alcoves from high skylights. He secluded himself in one of the remote nooks and knelt in a pool of radiance, laying aside the datapad respectfully delivered to his keeping by Docent Vann upon his exit from the salles.

It contained a most disturbing message.

Closing his eyes, he exhaled, grounding his meditation in a favored childhood visual anchor: he imagined himself one of the dust motes floating in the sunbeam's effulgence, his troubles and aspirations as inconsequential and weightless as the tiny speck that drifted – careless, perpetually uplifted – within the superabundance of Light.

Within this safe harbor of clarity, the unexpected message did not loom so grotesquely before him, stark and dreadful in its implications. It faded to mere words, some historian's note in the biography of a minor character. _"… option to transfer apprenticeship to another master approved by the Council….without censure or blame attached to either….acknowledges the right to free choice in the final disposition of this matter…. according to the will of the Force."_

One corner of his mouth twitched. Bureaucracy and mysticism were, perhaps, uneasy bedmates. He was certain he could have phrased it better – but such a thought was arrogant, and he quashed it, scolding himself for his presumption and for even daring to notice that the Council's formulary stood in dire need of stylistic improvements.

Had Qui-Gon been able to hear the prideful thought, the tall master would have instantly assigned a brutally lengthy essay on, say, the futility of all ratiocinative schema as explicated in the ancient Lotus-of-Force-Awakening sutra. And then, having received the dutifully completed penalty under whatever grueling deadline his whim dictated, he would have set it aside without so much as glancing at its contents. _After all, Padawan, the Living Force demands not our eloquence but rather our humility and compassion._

"Yes, master," he whispered.

The sun's diurnal motion had carried it past the angle of the skylights; the cubicle was abruptly devoid of luminance, plunged into veiling murk. He waved a hand, activating the glow-lamp on its small table. Shadows sprang up against the walls, clothing the sepulture cell in sinuous curves and lines, a tapestry of overlapping forms. Warmth fled with the rays of fire, and the Unifying Force flooded inward, revelatory and obscure at once.

The vision rose out of the silhouettes on the wall: watching, he saw them with his inner eye, and they flickered., blown on the invisible wind of premonition.

_Moving shadows cast by a funeral pyre. The flames, licking at mortal flesh, the gross matter no longer housing a spirit. Qui-Gon, crumbling to grey dust amidst the consuming tongues of flame. _

_A hand rested on his shoulder, and he looked up, into the cowled future. _

"_What will become of me now?" he asked, his own chest hollowed by grief-fueled fire, reduced to glowing embers and ash._

"_You will become a great Jedi. I promise."_

He gasped, trepidation rendering the shadows into morbid sentinels… into a leering audience, a Council of shades. He surged to his feet, heart pounding, hand tight about his saber's blade, ready to fend off the congregation of illusions and dark susurration.

"…Obi-Wan?"

He spun in place, to face the apparition upon the threshold, haloed in purest gold by the light beyond, clad in pristine white, solid and warm and reassuringly present. The trance broke and dissolved, appearances falling back into place over realities, until all was safely veiled again. "Siri."

"Oh. It _is _you, Kenobi. I didn't recognize you underneath the personal vanity."

He blinked. Siri Tachi's thin brows rose. "Your hair.. you look like a cheap harlot."

It was a deliberately provocative barb. He grinned wickedly. "I've been expanding my horizons lately. Undercover work, you know."

It was Siri Tachi's turn to blink. She drew in a sharp breath. "I- um – Garen and I have been looking for you. He took the arboretum and I came here. Reeft wouldn't help – he's already in the refectory."

"Oh." A shared meal would mean questions, conversation, scrutinizing looks. "I'm not hungry. Thank you – maybe later."

Siri shut off the lamp with a flick of her wrist. "Maybe now. Let's go – I'm not returning empty-handed." She summoned his datapad into her hand and idly flipped it on, perusing its contents.

"Siri-"

But too late; she had already seen the damning message. Her blue eyes widened, rising to meet his appalled gaze in swift apology. "I – I'm sorry, I didn't – "

The 'pad flew out of her grasp into his own. His torrent of protesting words compacted into an incoherent jumble, striking him mute. Siri looked away first, backing awkwardly out of his space.

"Siri," he managed, but no other sound came.

"I'll.. I'll tell Garen I couldn't find you," she promised, dipping her head.

He nodded, gratitude burning in his throat, and watched the glimmer of her pale tunics disappear into the dim Archives beyond.

He stood in the dark for a long while after she had gone.

* * *

"It makes no sense," Tahl frowned, stars and nebulae passing over her honeyed skin in slow procession as she strolled unseeing along the projection's periphery.

Qui-Gon smiled at the sight; she seemed to tread the heavens, to gather a hundredfold points of light in a single peerless constellation. "Uvainis Major," he murmured.

"Pay attention," Tahl snapped. "I'm not throwing my pearls of wisdom before swine, am I? This whole sector –" she waved an arm vaguely about her –" is nothing but a backwater in the Rims. It's not central enough to be a key strategic possession for _anyone."_

Her companion rose and joined her in the shining center of the Xolinthi sector, his eyes darting from star system to star system, tracing the network of shipping routes and population centers. There was nothing central to the Repblic's vitality here; nothing of outstanding value for any principality to claim; no obvious advantage to be afforded in the orchestration of some dark conspiracy. He sighed, running a hand through the most familiar star. The projector enlarged the view automatically, displaying the noxious asteroid field, the fetid ring of dead rock which had so recently been prison and place of torment. But there were no answers there, either; only the residual ache of impossible choice, excruciating decision.

"Was I wrong?" he asked.

"What?"

"Was I wrong – to evacuate the prisoners? We could easily have escaped without them; but Obi-Wan wished to rescue innocents first. Should I have insisted on the primary role, as Beju? Should I have declined the mission in the first place? I _told _ Plo that Obi-Wan was too young for such an assignment."

The motion of Tahl's arm as she reached out for him triggered the enlargement program again; the computer again magnified the view, encircling them in a hazy ring of asteroids, a lazy dance of light about their melancholy center. "You want to blame this on lack of foresight," she observed astutely. "But it's a matter of attachment, not bad planning."

His face twisted. "I know what another would do in my place."

Tahl drew closer, both hands pressed against his face. "You are not Dooku; he is not you. I would never expect you to leave him in the hands of the Force. But Qui… you must own your true motives."

"The situation was unspeakably precarious. I did it to save him."

She shook her head. "You did it to save yourself from losing him."

He closed his fingers about hers, quelling their now persistent subliminal tremor. "If so, I have failed in any case."

Tahl pulled away. "You've truly botched it if you let that boy go without _telling_ him, Qui."

The asteroids rotated slowly, a sanguine and rhythmless procession. "We are Jedi," he protested. "I am charged with _teaching_ him… such feelings are to be disavowed. You know this!"

She snorted. "Says the most diligent violator of the precepts ever to grace the Temple's halls. When did your courage desert you, Qui-Gon Jinn? You ask your Padawan to trust you while you _torture_ him – but you cannot offer even barest honesty in return. Perhaps he would be better off with Dooku after all."

"Tahl!"

But she moved further away, a shooting star falling from his inner heaven. "I'll speak to you again when you have regained the right to call yourself _master."_

And when she had departed, he obliterated the bright image of the galaxy, and stood alone in the utter void of space.

* * *

"Master Dooku!"

"Ah. There you are, Kenobi. Come this way. I've something to show you."

He fell into step a pace behind the tall Sentinel, fascinated by the elegant coiling of the elder Jedi's dark cloak hem. It felt natural to once again take up the position traditionally occupied by a faithful student… though Dooku did not look back even once as they traversed the Temple corridors, much less offer teasing conversation or insight veiled as humor.

Their destination was a private communications annex. Dooku ushered him into the dim chamber, with its central projection plate. "Someone you should meet, I think."

Obi-Wan nodded, eyes tracing over the beam of undifferentiated blue in the room's center. The signal focused and integrated, coalescing into a flickering effigy of Yarriss Moll, the stern-faced Iktotchi Sentinel. The horned Jedi acknowledged the Padawan's presence at the conference with a small, sober nod of his chiseled head.

"And how is our mutual acquaintance today?" Dooku inquired.

Moll's yellow eyes rolled upward. "His Royal Highness wishes to submit a message to the Jedi Council."

The silver-haired man chuckled softly. "Tell him I shall convey his message. We will speak directly."

The Iktotchi Shadow grunted, then shifted, bringing a new person to the forefront of the camera's range, propelling him forward with one massive hand.

Obi-Wan's eyes widened in amusement. The real Prince's costume was – if possible- worse than that he had appropriated for the cause of impersonation.

"Master Dooku!" the Galan snarled, drawing himself up. "My continued detainment is an intolerable offense. A perverse and tyrannical usurpation of my sovereignty and a – _who is that?'_

Dooku quirked a brow at his younger companion.

The young Jedi stepped forward and bowed. "Your double… unfortunately."

"Is that supposed to be _me?" _ Beju sniffed. "You Jedi make poor excuses for Thespians. Could you not have found somebody.." he waved a languid hand about, searching for words- "…well ….more _imposing_?"

Obi-Wan bristled, but Dooku's hand on his shoulder restrained his pawky wit.

"You are to be released from our sanctions today," the Sentinel informed the Prince. "However, I must warn you that the situation on your home planet is destabilized. Assassination attempts were made upon you, in absentia, and the Home Rule Party has been informed of your attempted alliance with the Mercantile Cooperative. We strongly suggest that you opt to extend your stay under the Republic's protective custody."

Beju yawned. "You bore me."

Dooku shrugged. "The choice is yours, of course."

"I should think so," the Prince snapped. "You Jedi take too many liberties. You are _servants_ of the Republic, I might remind you."

"We are servants of the _Force,"_ the Sentinel corrected him, icily, as Moll pulled the sulking Galan aristocrat away from the holo-cam again.

When the two Jedi had exchange a few terse parting remarks, the transmission ended. Obi-Wan stood thoughtfully in the now empty chamber.

"The difference between a Prince and a Jedi is a slight one," Dooku informed him. "Both inherit power; both by right ought to dedicate it to the common good; both must submerge personality for the sake of duty. But what is it that separates them?"

The Padawan hesitated, unsure of the question's purpose. "The Force," he replied. It was a safe answer, if not a scintillating one. "…Or maybe clothes?"

A soft chuckle. And then an enigmatic silence.

"You have received the Council's message, I am confident," Dooku said after a long pause.

Obi-Wan glanced up, startled. He had supposed the contents of that missive to be… confidential. And then another thought struck him. He stared at Qui-Gon's former mentor, staggered by the unspoken offer.

Dooku's grey eyes glinted. Mutual understanding invisibly bound them, a cold promise made over the ashes of a smoldering pyre.

"The choice is yours, of course," the Sentinel repeated.

* * *

"Come here."

Tahl's word was law.. at least in the confines of her private quarters, and certainly when spicy djo was on the line. Obi-Wan grudgingly obeyed.

She traced a hand over his face, seeking answers beneath the tangible. "Don't think you're fooling me. You haven't spoken to him, have you?"

He shifted churlishly. "No, master."

"I should withhold food until you come to your senses."

The Padawan pulled back out of reach. "I'll do without."

Tahl held the door shut against his Force-push, the conflicting impulses nearly shorting the circuits. The lights flickered, and the Padawan guiltily desisted. "Master, I –"

"You will sit down, and eat this meal, and then you will go find Qui-Gon and _for Force's sake, _ child, you will speak to your master. Or at the very least, you will listen with an open mind. Are you a surly, spoiled Prince or a Jedi?"

Obi-Wan cringed. "Forgive me."

Tahl placed food upon her low table, not looking at him. "A bargain: forgiveness shall be granted to those who bestow it in their turn."

He sat, momentarily torn between melancholic contemplation of profound mysteries and the alluring aroma of spicy djo with fava beans… and then settled the inner dispute in favor of the food, with shameless adolescent pragmatism.

"I'll take that as a promise," Tahl quipped.

* * *

Seek and evade exercises were one thing, but seeking out one's Padawan when the latter person did not wish to be found was quite another. Qui-Gon muttered a familiar Malastarian curse under his breath and set about the task with all the tenacity of a hunting gundark during famine season. Only his apprentice could attain to such a rarefied condition of aloof belligerence as to _disappear_ entirely when he was most wanted, his Force presence battened down beneath impenetrable shields, his footsteps carrying him instinctively away whenever he so much as subconsciously felt the tall man's approach.

"Blast it, Obi-Wan."

He collected his wits. Where would the boy have gone? He was in none of his favorite haunts: dojo, Archives, their shared quarters, Ali Alaan's crèche, meditation rooms on level six - nor classroom, comm center, outdoor gardens, refectory, or the hangars, or the workshops adjacent, or apparently anywhere here in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

"I haven't gone out to the red light district to pursue _enlightenment,"_ a young and sarcastically lilting voice accosted him. A razor's edge thrummed beneath the jest, a dry allusion turned slightly rancid .

Qui-Gon swiveled on the spot and stood. "Obi-Wan. Will you walk with me?" Absurd, perhaps, for the master to proffer invitation when he could issue stern mandate… but the tall man did not wish to instigate another bitter exchange, and he sensed the tenuous nature of their accord.

The Padawan scowled. studying the graveled pathway, then the drooping fronds of the topoloi bushes, and then the bench's intricate scrollwork before finally meeting the older Jedi's gaze. "Yes." A concession to some inner debate, but an affirmative nonetheless.

It was a fragile armistice, but as an experienced diplomat, he had dealt with worse. They set off down the footway, boots crunching the pebbles underfoot, Qui-Gon unconsciously adjusting his stride to match that of his smaller companion. Somewhere nearby, water burbled. By tacit consent, they avoided the branching path that led to the waterfall, site of painful memory; by force of long habit, they fell into single file where the path narrowed around a jutting boulder; without thought, they climbed the terraced stairs that wound above the yarbanna grotto, to a sheltered summit warmed by the last evening cycle of the massive overhead light banks..

Silence.

The gathering mist frolicked about their heels, dusted their hair with a thousand droplets. "You haven't cut off that mess yet," Qui-Gon observed.

Obi-Wan ran a hand through Beju's disorderly mop. "No." he offered no explanation.

More silence.

"I … the Council has communicated their decision to me," the Padawan said at last.

Qui-Gon nodded. "I know. I respect their edict, in this case. And the choice is yours."

His Padawan looked out over the canopy of colorful yarbanna leaves, hands thrust deep within opposite sleeves, mirroring the older man's posture.

Another heavy stretch of seconds.

"I spoke with Beju this afternoon. By hologram," Obi-Wan offered, at length.

"Oh? And what is your impression?"

"He bores me." The young Jedi's mouth thinned dangerously. "He deserves a royal whipping." The words dripped corrosive irony, subtle and cutting. Obi-Wan turned his face away.

Qui-Gon exhaled, slowly. "Padawan. I would like to …explain. To speak with you about the mission."

His apprentice feigned polite interest. "I've been thinking about the Xolinth sector, too. It's of no strategic value to anyone… and yet clearly much trouble and planning has gone into the secessionist movement there."

"Yes?"

"It's a _trial run,_ master."

The tall man looked in amazement upon his perceptive young charge. A trial run. An experiment. A testing ground. Of course. But… for what?

Obi-Wan did not offer further insight. The mist thickened into obscuring fog. They pulled their cloaks tighter in unison.

"I wished to speak about the _other_ aspect of our mission," the Jedi master persisted.

"I don't wish to speak about it," the Padawan growled.

Qui-Gon turned to face him, reining in his flare of resentment. "Then you will do me the courtesy of _listening."_

The young Jedi let his guard slip the merest fraction, again losing some inner battle. He sighed. "…I'm listening."

Aware that he had but one chance to land a hit, Qui-Gon ignored the curt parry and lunged in, a Makashi strike of his own. "This is about personal feelings, Padawan."

The boy's face hardened to passionless stone.

That signaled a deep cut, cauterizing an open wound. Qui-Gon winced, pushing onward.. "My actions were motivated by attachment," he continued, "And they led to suffering. Let my failure be a lesson, for both of us. Even if it is the last lesson I have the privilege of teaching you."

Obi-Wan's brows beetled together, and he bowed his head, making no answer.

The tall man waited another minute, while the fog settled in a cold mantle over them both. He took a tentative step toward the head of the stairs, then hesitated. "Will you come in person to tell me of your final decision?" he asked.

A gentle nod.

"Thank you." And Qui-Gon descended the time-worn steps alone, leaving at least half his heart behind, as night settled upon the artificial paradise.


	22. Chapter 22

**Lineage VI**

* * *

**Chapter 22**

* * *

Obi-Wan sallied into the mid-level dojo just past dawn, hungry for whatever conflict chance or the Force threw his way. Here, he might well encounter some of the advanced senior Padawans or a younger Knight willing to throw down in a saber contest, a clash of skill and speed intense enough to drown out all other realities, however briefly.

The practice floors were empty. Well, all but empty.

He bowed, startled by the unexpected sight of Master Yoda, apparently waiting for him, in the very center of the junior training rooms. "Master!"

The tiny Jedi shuffled forward, leaning heavily on his stick. His long ears twitched irritably as he grumbled and chuffed his way across the scored floorboards. "Early you come, Obi-Wan. What seek you here?"

"A… a sparring partner, master," he replied, hoping that the ancient one would not offer to fill this role.

But the old master merely snorted. "Looking for fight, you are,"" he corrected tartly. "Feel your anger, I can. Carry it with you, I think." One clawed hand rose, blunt digits extended. The Padawan's saber hilt flew from its place at his belt to land squarely in Yoda's grasp.

"I don't-"

"Yes! Yes, you do!" the Grand master rasped, gimlet eyes narrowing. He brandished the weapon. "A tool for indulgence of _feelings, _ this is not." He placed the 'saber at his own side, "Keep this I will, until better control of yourself you attain."

Scarlet spread across the Padawan's cheeks, and he sank to one knee. "I…forgive me, master. I … I…have no excuse."

The gimer stick poked him lightly in the chest. "Much to talk about we have, hm?"

A sinuous burn mark scarred the floorboard beneath his left knee. It blurred into a double and then triple image as he studied it, its contours smearing into a salty river.

"I am truly sorry, master."

The ancient teacher stumped about, stick clacking on the hard polished terra-wood. "Busy I am. Much to do. Speak now, we will, while time there is, eh? Tea I have ready."

The young Jedi risked an upward glance, steeling himself to meet a harshly censuring gaze, but Yoda merely peeked at him over one hunched shoulder, wispy hair waving softly as he stumped along toward the door.

"Come, youngling," the wizened old troll grunted, leading the way out.

* * *

"I've read your addendum to the mission report," Mace rumbled. "It's a disturbing thought."

"But an insightful one," Qui-Gon replied. They walked briskly, long strides evenly matched. "What better way to test the waters than in a relatively untrafficked corner of the Republic?"

The Korun master sighed. "Conditioning centers for troops… secessionist alliances… Trade factions vying for power in their proprietary sectors… and an unknown manipulator behind the whole scene… it's quite the conspiracy theory, Qui-Gon. Unlike you, really."

The tall man's mouth quirked. "My Padawan was the originator of the idea… but I feel there is great truth in what he says. And Mace…"

They halted, facing one another squarely. The dark-complected man studied his companion closely.

"The Council must not ignore these warnings. A great disturbance is brewing on the horizon."

"I feel it too, " Mace growled, nodding his head in solemn acknowledgment of the ominous future. "We will be vigilant."

They walked onward, lost in uncomfortable premonition of things still shrouded by time's dark horizon, their footsteps carrying them from the outdoor gardens into the long morning shadow of the Temple's high ivory walls.

* * *

"Drink first, talk later," Yoda commanded.

When the bitter tea had been reduced to murky dregs swirling in the shallow bowls, the ancient one settled comfortably upon his aged meditation pad. Obi-Wan's gaze swept around the dim chamber, taking in each detail of the Grand master's private quarters. The cleaning droids were very clearly never allowed in here… though he did not even dare to _think _the word "uncivilized" in Yoda's revered presence.

He didn't need to. "Hmmmmph," the ancient Jedi grumbled. "Outward dust and grime far preferable to inward. Keep his heart pure, a Jedi does. This gross matter," he waved a hoary hand at the walls and floor, "a distraction can be."

"Yes, master." The Padawan straightened his tabards, tucking his feet beneath himself on the opposite cushion.

Yoda leaned forward, eyes half-hooded. "Now," he ordered. "Angry you are. Meditated on this have you?"

"Yes, master – I have. All night. But… I .. I did not gain any insight. My meditations were disturbed."

The ancient one dismissed this with a snort. "No wonder. Angry you are. Blinds us to the Force, makes us deaf: anger these things does, and more."

The Padawan stirred uncomfortably. "What shall I do, then? I cannot release my feelings without the Force.. and now you tell me I cannot touch the Force while I am burdened with these feelings. There is no way out."

"What?" the tiny master feigned amazement. "Surrender, do you? Already?"

"No… but –"

A loud exclamation of disgust silenced him. Yoda poked a claw in his direction. "This word. Forbidden you are to say it again." He waited a moment, daring his interlocutor to object, then plowed onward. "Tell me you will in what your anger is rooted."

Obi-Wan tensed. "Master Qui-Gon," he started. "…But the Council knows what happened! You have even given me the choice to-"

"No!" came the next interruption. "Not a ratification of your feelings was that. Merely a possible solution. Censured Master Jinn is not. Necessary his actions were, if to live you were."

The young Jedi's spine stiffened. "Perhaps he should have left me to die, then. I thought… I thought we were cornered. I expected him to fight by my side. I would have done my duty, master!"

Yoda's implacable gaze softened a trifle. "Doubt it I do not. But your duty, changeable it is. To follow your master's lead, sometimes, it must be. Risky were his actions, but effective in the end."

The Padawan stared, appalled. He ground his teeth, horrified at the upsurge of fury in his gut, terrified that he might shame himself and unleash it here, in the presence of one he honored above almost any other. "I – I – he _whipped_ me, master! I – he said to _trust_ him, and he laughed and he – " The next words were swallowed down in a hard gulp.

"Hm. Pain you suffered," Yoda summed up. "Pain of the flesh we must endure, sometimes. Strong are you. Recovered, yes? Why angry still at healed wounds?"

Obi-Wan squirmed in place. "That's not … I'm sorry. I understand. I didn't then – but I can see the reasons now. And the pain is in the past. But, I still…" He struggled to put words to the elusive poison that seeped beneath his blood, the hurt that would not lessen.

Yoda sighed, deeply. "Attachment," he grumbled.

Qui-Gon had said the same thing. He was so blasted sick of hearing it. "Betrayal," he objected.

"No," Yoda insisted, coldly. "Attachment. A stone there is in your pocket."

Surprised by nothing the ancient one did or said, or perhaps contrariwise equally surprised by all of it, the young Jedi withdrew the smoothed river stone from its customary place inside his inner tunic. He turned it between his fingers for a moment, remembering the occasion of its presentation to him, and then closing one hand gently about one of his only truly private possessions.

"Personal feelings," Yoda rasped. "Like your stone they are. Easy to hold them, when a source of comfort they are." The rock warmed as he spoke, a point of welcome heat radiating outward from its center, suffusing the Padawan's hand. "But a source of suffering also can they be." The stone blazed hot, a burning coal. Obi-Wan dropped it, gasping and rubbing his stinging palm against his knee. It throbbed with the burn.

The river stone rolled on the floor, ending between the two meditation pads.

"Let go, you must. If your attachment you cannot renounce, then remove yourself from its object, you must. Cleared your path, the Council has. Advise you, I can. But your decision must it be."

Obi-Wan held out his aching hand and summoned the cooled stone back into his possession. "I crave your counsel, master," he murmured, bowing his head.

The ancient one closed his eyes, serenely. "Compassion," he said, cryptically. "Stronger than attachment, it is. A better guide than _personal feelings, _ Padawan."

The young Jedi stowed his rock close against his heart. "Yes, master," he answered, feeling the Force-sensitive mineral warming against his skin, a soothing presence. Compassion. Trust. Forbearance. He reached feebly for the Light, understanding that he had been offered the choice of a lesser path as a concession to his youth and weakness, an acknowledgement that he could back away from this struggle without blame.

In the end, he did not feel like surrendering quite yet.

His jaw set itself in a hard line.

"I must decline the Council's offer to transfer apprenticeship," he told the Grand Master. "I will not take the easy way."

Yoda's eyes opened, a limpid fire kindling in their depths. His wrinkled mouth opened in a ghoulish smile, revealing small crooked teeth. "Then climb the steep path, you must." His hand brushed against the Padawans' saber hilt. "Earn right to carry this. Keep it safe for you a little longer, I will."

There was no countermanding the ancient one's decision; Obi-Wan stood, and made his formal bow, and was dismissed with a not unkindly grunt.

* * *

Tahl rose from the couch upon the Padawan's entrance, her hand sliding out of Qui-Gon's grasp. "I… will be in the Archives," she announced, tactfully sliding past the newcomer and into the hallway. "But feel free to stay."

And she was gone, sealing the door behind her.

Qui-Gon stood. "Obi-Wan. You've made your decision." There was no need to ask; the Force was roiling with a heady resolution, a long-brewing electrical storm finally descending upon the shore. He braced himself for the deserved blow.

The Padawan fixed him with a penetrating blue gaze, his first words tumbling out as though rehearsed. "Master, I wish to apologize for my harsh words to you in the last days. My conduct sprang from inappropriate personal feelings, and I … I regret my rash behavior. I wish to express my deep respect for your teachings, and honor your decisions. I understand the reasons for your actions, now, and I do not … I have no cause for resentment."

The tall man hesitated. This was no beginning at all. But nor did it seem to be the ending he so secretly dreaded. He hooked thumbs through his belt, pensively. "You do not need to apologize to me," he said, simply.

Of course, his apprentice could not resist the invitation to debate.

"I just did," Obi-Wan retorted. "And there is need. My feelings – they ill become a Jedi! They are –were- inappropriate. You said yourself that attachment leads to suffering, that it should be the last lesson-"

"That is not my point," the tall man calmly interrupted. "There is no need to apologize for your feelings, whether or not they were appropriate. I have always taught you to recognize, accept and release such emotion. Perhaps you might have _handled _ your present distress more graciously, but I do not blame you for possessing a generous and therefore vulnerable heart."

The compliment ruffled the Padawan's composure more than the throng of fourscore enemies in the Xolinthi stronghold had. "This is not a matter of the heart," he replied, tightly. "It is a matter of reason. I understand the necessity of your actions… that is all that matters. I see the whole picture, and my place in it. I …I was blinded by emotion before."

Qui-Gon shook his head. "You cannot _talk _your way out of this, young one. Your mind may be at peace, but much the opposite is still true of your feelings."

The first lightning flashed in the Force's invisible heavens. Obi-Wan's chin came up. "My personal feelings do not matter!" he snarled.

Qui-Gon stood fast in the rising gale, feeling the shifting of the winds. "They matter to me," he persisted.

Thunder rolled between them. The Padawan stepped closer. "Then why did you do it? " More thunder. Another forked tongue of light, splitting the clouds of cold reserve. "I trusted you! I wanted you there, at the end! I would have died _right there,_ by your side!"

"I know."

The placid reply earned him another inaudible, deafening rumble of emotion. The Force was whipped by cold recollection, by storm-tossed confusion, by outrage. "You _laughed_!" Obi-Wan accused him, the inner maelstrom finally making landfall. "You _shielded_ from me! You – you _made me scream!"_

Qui-Gon seized him by one shoulder. "That was Merggum," he said, sharply. "Obi-Wan: you were barely cognizant. That last strike was Merggum, not me. And I shielded so that you could not feel my pain.. and perhaps to save myself from yours. Do you think I _enjoyed_ myself, Padawan?" He allowed some of his own recalled horror to seep into the tumultuous Force.

The young Jedi's brows contracted into a pained valley. "I .. I don't know… "

The tall man's gut twisted. Had the boy even _heard_ his repeated reassurances, the heartfelt apologies sent across their bond? Drugged and disoriented as he had been, it was possible that any attempt at solace would have been futile. Or had the subsequent lashing scourged all such feeble comfort from his memory?

"I would _never_ cause you such pain if –"

"You turned on me! I _trusted you and you betrayed me!"_ Hailstones fell in wild torrents, excoriating shrapnel, remembered pain. "You were supposed to fight by my side, not shoot me down! You- you were supposed to _teach_ me… not transform into a _monster!_"

The tall man closed his eyes, reeling beneath the onslaught. He sank to one knee, humbling himself. "Obi-Wan. I have wronged you, though I intended only your good. I beg your forgiveness – not as my Padawan, but as my friend. As my fellow Jedi."

The boy heaved in a shaking breath, once again stunned. He slowly dropped down to his knees, until they were level. "I …. Master, I …don't-"

"I have failed you, young one. I betrayed you, indeed. It was attachment that drove me… perhaps we were meant to die on that asteroid. But I have wrested fate into a different course, and now we both face the consequences. I beg your pardon for my folly, and for the pain I inflicted. I only ask that you do not nurture this _anger_ any further."

And with his plea for clemency, the hot passion brewing in the Force melted gracefully into shame, and then sorrow, and finally a tender grief, empathy for a perceived oppressor, bone-deep intuitive understanding of the reciprocal horrors they had faced.

He looked up, and saw only compassion welling where fury had squalled but a moment earlier. Forgiveness fell, spattering lightly at first and then pouring in clear rivulets from hidden recesses of being, unsullied springs. In flagrant defiance of the Code, Qui-Gon gathered the young man in his arms, pledging to the Living Force a nameless oath, one outside the trammels of tradition, of rubric and ossified wisdom. He held on fast, defying the cruel wheel of fate to break that which outstripped mere attachment as compassion outshone the pale greed of possession.

Eventually, the rains ceased, and the shuddering of his apprentice's shoulders quivered to a standstill. "Master," Obi-Wan muttered, "I wish to remain under your guidance."

A tiny smile lifted one corner of the Jedi master's mouth. "So I assumed." He did not lessen his protective grip.

"I never want to accept an undercover assignment again," Obi-Wan told him, earnestly. "Can you petition the Council?"

A bittersweet sigh. "That is not ours to choose, Padawan."

"Oh…. But can't you-"

"No." He held on, buffering the harsh truth with his steady embrace. "I am sorry."

He had known it from the start, from the day he had told Plo Koon the boy was too _youn_g, for there was too much at stake in such missions. Obi-Wan was recklessly brave, and would sacrifice his life without fear or regret; however, the capacity to sacrifice some measure of integrity for the greater good, to accept the nauseating amoral realms into which necessary deception might lead one… that was something he might never fully master, though he would try. Qui-Gon wasn't sure he wanted to ever see the lesson driven home, either. "We will discuss it later. Now is not the time."

A stifled hiccup. Qui-Gon rested his chin on top of the boy's head. "We both have much to learn," he sighed. It was true. They were now shackled by attachment and by the open confession of the same – both of them together, bound by more than honor, mutually wounded by their damaged trust. It would be a long road ahead, steep and treacherous – and perhaps more difficult than either had ever dreamed - but aspiring to a rarely attained summit.

"I am ready," Obi-Wan assured him in a muffled voice, addressing the unvoiced sentiment..

Qui Gon stroked his back, fingers skimming over the fiery scars of a cruel whip, marks muted by bacta and time, but lingering on as livid echoes in the Force. "It will never happen again, " he said gravely. "I promise you. We have nothing more to learn from betrayal."

To accept this first pledge was itself an act of trust, an unmerited grace. Obi-Wan sucked in a deep breath. "Yes, master."

And they began anew.

After another minute, Qui-Gon grimaced. "My old joints are stiffening," he lied. "And if Master Tahl returns to this maudlin spectacle, she will never let me hear the end of it."

"And I in turn shall then never hear the end of it," Obi-Wan quipped, dashing a hand over his moist face and yet still managing somehow to convey a droll resignation.

Qui-Gon cleared his throat, covering a chuckle. "Brat."

They stood, cloaking themselves in the humorous excuse, in the thin but sufficient disguise of wit, and turned to face the future together.

* * *

They left Tahl's quarters an hour past midnight, Obi-Wan half-stumbling as he yawned his way down the hushed concourse to their own apartment.

The familiar clack of a gimer stick brought them up short, bowing in unison to the shriveled green master who seemed both to know all things and to be everywhere at once, like the Force he so devotedly served.

"Asleep on your feet like a bantha, Obi-Wan?" the ancient Jedi inquired, eyes traveling perceptively over the pair of them, sifting the grains of possibility and finding himself pleased with the outcome. "To bed with you." He waved his stick imperiously, sending the exhausted Padawan on his bleary way.

They lingered in the passage until the boy's dark cloak was out of sight.

"Master." Qui-Gon waited patiently for the eccentric elder to speak his mind, as he so clearly intended.

"Hhmph," Yoda snorted, after a long pause. "Disappointed, Master Dooku will be, I think. Keeping the boy for yourself, you are."

"Until my duty to train him is fulfilled," Qui-Gon affirmed. "I intend no disrespect to my former master."

The old one grunted sardonically. "Good for him, is a little disappointment now and then. None of us too old to learn, is. Even eight hundred fifty some is young, in the Force, hm?"

The tall man smiled. "We are all infants in the Force," he agreed. At the moment, heart singing within him, he felt like a newborn looking upon the wondrous galaxy for the first time.

Yoda's gaze followed his, down the stretch of corridor the Padawan had just traversed. "Something for you to return to proper owner," he chuffed, reaching beneath his tattered outer robe to produce Obi-Wan's gleaming saber hilt. "In your keeping, I think this is safe, yes?"

Qui-Gon accepted the weapon gravely, inclining his head. "I heed your words, my master," he murmured, the message not lost on him.

"Good," the tiny master harrumphed. "Keep you from your rest, I do. Go. Need it you do, if keep up with that boy you must."

* * *

Dark tresses fluttered down, coiling and piling upon the smooth floor, the last vestiges of Prince Beju shed like gentle rain. Qui-Gon Jinn set down the grooming tool, releasing a soundless, satisfied breath as he surveyed his handiwork. "Much better," he murmured.

Kneeling amid a silky drift of discarded mahogany, Obi-Wan ran a hand curiously over his scalp, feeling the close-cropped hair – a scant centimeter of auburn roots that had survived the trim. "It's… short," the Padawan agreed, brows rising. "Master Windu will approve of your extremism."

The tall man smiled placidly. "You resemble a freshly shorn Chandrilan lamb. Even Master Tahl might be moved to maternal tenderness by the piteous spectacle."

The young Jedi snorted. "As long as I never have to see Beju again – at least in a mirror."

Qui-Gon combed through the dangling strands of the unbound Padawan braid, sole survivors of his ruthless purge. "I think we may safely anticipate the granting of that wish, although –"

"We come to serve," his apprentice dutifully finished. He fingered the downy locks piled about his knees, quietly pondering some private source of dubiety.

Qui-Gon divided the long hair into three thin sections: teacher, student, the Force.

"Master?"

"Hm."

"I know it is of no importance," the Padawan hesitantly began. "That is, there is no such thing as chance. But Prince Beju and I share certain physical traits. Do you suppose…?"

Qui-Gon smoothed the hair between his fingers. The corners of his eyes crinkled. "No. There is no traceable relationship."

Obi-Wan's shoulders relaxed, a minute slackening of tense muscles. "Are you quite certain, master?"

"Yes. I, ah, checked the genetic records before we departed. The notion had crossed my mind, as well."

"Not that it matters," his apprentice assured him.

The Jedi master twisted the separate strands together, deftly, the pattern of the woven thread as familiar as breathing. Markers were replaced, tiny milestones on the path, colored threads and here or there a miniscule bead signifying a trial overcome, a wisdom gained.

"But then," the Padawan insisted, frowning slightly, "what accounts for the resemblance?"

Qui-Gon carefully twisted the braid one last time - another step forward, another knot of shared experience binding them together - and tied off its end, smoothing the plait over his student's right shoulder. "Appearances can be deceiving, young one."

"But –"

The master held up a silencing finger. "You must trust me in this, Padawan."

A troubled nod. "Yes, master."

"And no brooding."

"Yes, master."

He placed his hands upon Obi-Wan's shoulders, holding him at arm's length. "Good."

Their eyes met in perfect understanding, a mutual commitment to heal the scars of recent memory, to rebuild the sacked citadel of trust from ruins into renewed strength. Slowly, surely, yoked together by tradition, by discipline… and by something more, they would move forward side by side. The Force resonated with the pure note of another beginning, a present moment mellowed and deepened by the past, not yet overshadowed by the ever-moving future.

Qui-Gon leaned closer. "There is _no_ resemblance, my Prince." He brushed a gentle kiss across the boy's softly furrowed brow, a formal benediction smoothing away the last residue of doubt. "…None at all."

FINIS


End file.
